The Pirate's Gospel
by oqidaun
Summary: How an unlikely hero lost a leg, found a king and saved the day with a copy of Newton's "Principia Mathematica" in his breast pocket. CHAPTER 12: An illegitimate East India Company connection, a bloody huge ship and an odd courtship. UPDATED!
1. Author's Preface

**Disclaimer:** The following is fan fiction inspired by the film _The Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides_ © Disney (2011).

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

How an unlikely hero lost a leg, found a king and saved the day with a copy of _Principia Mathematica_ in his breast pocket.

**AUTHOR'S PREFACE**

CONCERNING CHRONOLOGY

A word about the chronology of events: According to the scriptwriters, the POTC films take place in a "floating thirty year environment" from about 1720-1740. The most recent film, POTC: On Stranger Tides, was given a fixed date of 1750. There has been considerable debate about the amount of time elapsed between POTC: At World's End and On Stranger Tides. For the purposes of this story, the following timeline, which is still a bit too compressed for my tastes) has been employed with regard to the films:

1750: On Stranger Tides

1744: At World's End

1741: Dead Man's Chest

1739: Curse of the Black Pearl

The crux of my arguments in favor of substantially lengthening the timeline rests on the distances traveled. Remember it takes a long time to get from Point "A" to Point "B" in the 18th Century. Running in the full wind a large merchant ship or warship had a maximum speed of around 9 kts (1 knot = 1.15 mph). For frigates, 13 kts (15mph) was considered exceptional. In Caribbean waters it was possible to travel up to 150 miles a day; however, an Atlantic crossing from Europe to the Colonies was considerably slower, 80-100 miles, and an average (incident-free) trip amounted to a 40-50 day journey. Thus, to be accurate the timeline needs to reflect the amount of time spent on the water, especially when the story line leaves the Caribbean Sea. For example, the distance from Port Royal to Singapore is over 11,000 miles _as the crow flies_. The shortest route to Singapore from the Caribbean would have been across the Atlantic, rounding Africa's southern extreme at the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean for a total of about 14,000 miles and taken over five months (approx. 155 days), if an average speed of 90 miles per diem could be maintained.

Geography is an important part of the story and needs not be abridged carelessly as some are wont to do For example, a Pacific trek from Port Royal to Singapore would have taken much longer, something Rob Kidd in the _Legends of the Brethren Court_ series failed to appreciate when he sent our intrepid heroes from Port Royal to the Straits of Magellan and across the Pacific roughly following the route Cook would take much later in the century and, thus making the trip stretch 20,000 miles. Even at a steady clip of 100 miles a day (good weather, good wind and the Black Pearl's reputation for speed) it would have taken close to 200 days to just to get to Singapore not adjusting for the amount of time that would be lost in the perpetually rough seas at the tip of South America or factoring in provisioning stops.

Moral of the story: Jack sat in Davey Jones' locker for quite awhile and Elizabeth had plenty of time to learn how to be a pirate.

ISSUES OF CANON

For the purposes of this story, I concede primacy in matters of canon to the film series followed by production notes, DVD and promotional material, published film specific supplemental guides and A.C. Crispin's _Price of Freedom_ (the adult prequel novel set 13 years prior to the first film). I do not consider the young adult Disney series (_Young Jack Sparrow_ and _Legends of the Brethren Court_) as canon and my argument for omission is further bolstered by the fact that A.C. Crispin also did not consider these books part of the canon.

1


	2. Chapter 1

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER I**

LEGAL QUAYS, BILLINGSGATE, CITY OF LONDON

MARCH 1748

Seagulls screeched over the din of the busy Wednesday morning. At uneven intervals, identifiable noises rose above the commercial cacophony along the Thames. Angry shouts punctuated the offloading of cargo. A ship's bell clanged the hour ten minutes too early. Somewhere, someone cackled like a banshee, while a fishmonger shouted his wares at his potential customers. The river teamed with tall ships and the docks were alive with men managing cargo, sailors made anxious by the difficulties of navigating the river and the many black clad customs officers holding court at their clipboards. One could get lost or go mad in the endless sea of masts, but it was just as easy to grow very wealthy from it.

The London Pool was the city's historic port that stretched south of London Bridge from Billingsgate toward Rotherhithe where the British East India Company's Howland Wet Docks were located. The name "Legal Quays" referred to all of the docks along the Pool where imports were offloaded and customs duties accessed. The docks of the old Custom House in Billingsgate on Thames Street were the original legal quays, but by the eighteenth century woefully inadequate for the volume of goods entering the city. London's maritime economy had long since outgrown its wharves. By the 1740s the daily traffic at the docks left an average of 1,800 vessels ranging from cargo laden East Indiamen to smaller merchant frigates and brigs moored in the Upper Pool—the section of the river from London Bridge to the Tower Gate—an area barely adequate to accommodate 500 vessels. Hundreds of lighters, cargo barges and colliers further contributed to the confusion and congestion of the Pool. To describe the scene as chaotic would have been a generous assessment given that chaos often ebbs and flows, whereas the Thames only worsened.

The sun rose triumphantly above the smoky city and the day promised to be unseasonably warm. A thick salty film clung to the ship's worn railing making it appear dull in the sunlight, yet no duller than that of the other ship moored less than ten feet away. Yet still, she avoided touching the short banister as she wandered down the few steps separating the forecastle from the main deck. Lady Charlotte Stanhope, wife of Royal Society Fellow Thomas Eldridge Stanhope, had fair skin and the broad brimmed hat she wore made sense in the bright sunlight. It also conferred a degree of anonymity, for the woman in the large hat commanded the attention of the loitering crew, but no one actually paid attention to what she was doing—just the fact that she was there and little else.

Toward the stern, the captain and first mate were arguing with her garishly dressed companion about the color of the paint used to mark the water line, thereby enabling her to roam the deck as she pleased. As the paint related conversation grew more heated, she paused by the mainmast and noted the condition of the yardarms and canvas above. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun as she craned her neck to see the upper reaches of the mainmast. The captain was now offering her companion the privilege of choosing the color and promising to repaint the line immediately. She liked the hint of desperation in his voice and hazarded a glance over her shoulder at the scene. The former naval officer had a pained look as he struggled to gain favor with the ridiculous Frenchman.

Charlotte returned her attention to the mast, her critical gaze moving downward from the royal. Just below the royal she caught sight of a vertical crack almost obscured by the narrow shadow cast by the mizzen. The defect was impressive. Snakelike, it widened below the topgallant and continued as a nearly invisible splinter that stopped at a point just above the topsail. The shadows and rigging made the fissure difficult to see from the deck some fifty feet below, but even a second-rate drunk tending the canvas could not miss it at eye-level. She rubbed her hands together.

The captain could promise to paint the whole ship bright purple to match Pascal's awful coat, but she would still refuse to underwrite a transatlantic voyage on any vessel needing its mainmast replaced. Beaming now, like the winner of a game of chance, she tipped her hat to her opponent high above her. Packed with oakum on more than one occasion, the efforts to hide it proved as effective as putting a new coat and wig on a dead dinner guest. She appreciated the effort, but the stench ruined her appetite.

"Monsieur Valois," she called sweetly to the man who knew nothing about appraising ships aside from matters related to the color scheme, "my feet hurt."

He snapped to attention at her voice. "Gentlemen, I bid my leave," he bowed foppishly to the captain and first mate, "it has been a rare pleasure and I'll have my decision sent to you before the end of the business day."

"You've not even been below deck." The first mate seemed quite angry.

"My good man," he cooed, "this is what I do. It is my art. There's much, so much, that I can tell about a boat—ship, I mean—just from standing here and rather lamentably this is not the first time my intuitive gifts have denied me the opportunity of getting lost in the dark hold with such a strapping fellow as yourself."

The first mate's nostrils flared threateningly.

"Monsieur Valois, my feet!"

"Ever the gentleman devoted to my lady, I must absolutely bid thee adieu."

"You're mad." The captain growled.

Almost halfway to the gangplank, Valois stopped and spun around dramatically. Now, he was glad he wore his good dancing shoes that complemented his coat otherwise he might have slipped on the deck executing his turn. "Perhaps, but you would do well to look at the near-perfect record of ships Bristol-West Indies Ltd. has underwritten. We're like a good luck token. We're the dolphins off the bow and the happy colored sun on a morning free from depressing omens. We're the crossed-eyed Italian orphan lighting candles and praying for your safe return." He reined his performance in, setting up his exit. "If we think it wise to put our fortunes on the mark for you," he knocked three times on the railing, "you'll probably make it back in one piece."

With a grandiose flourish, Valois seized his walking stick from the confused young sailor he'd left in charge of it twenty minutes earlier and bowed deeply to the crew as though he expected a round of applause. When the audience failed to award him adulations, he skipped down the ramp and joined his employer.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Lost in a dark hold with the first mate? Cross-eyed orphan prayers? Pascal, I'd shoot you myself if it wouldn't take me another ten years to train a replacement." She held her hat against the breeze as she turned back to catch one last glimpse of the doomed mainmast. "You will have Pearson write Captain Gardner and politely inform him that his patchwork mainmast will be his downfall in heavy weather or if ever he decides to transport anything of value and runs afoul of someone eager to relieve him of it, the concussion alone from a few poorly aimed guns will cost him his ship. The whole mainmast must be replaced before I would consider backing him in part or full on a voyage to the other side of a teacup, let alone to the Carolinas." Linking her arm through Pascal's and still bracing her hat, she pulled him away. "What a pity, I really liked the name '_Blue Isabella_'."

She continued to think about the mast as they walked along the waterfront toward St. Magnes Church looking for a brig bearing the name _St. Christopher_. Charlotte had no intention of underwriting it on its first Atlantic crossing. She only wanted to ruffle the feathers of the fat clerk with the connection to Barclay's Bank who had once told Pascal he would do better to leave his saucy wench in a tavern whilst he conducted his business at the quays. She despised the fat clerk, right down to his fat toes.

New ships usually needed multiple investors to be adequately insured since replacement costs could ruin an individual underwriter. Unless one of the two corporations sanctioned by Crown decided to write an actual policy for the ship, which was very expensive, the owner would have to gamble with partial security or round up a whole group of investors and deal with the infighting and factions therein. Charlotte refused to underwrite a new ship's first crossing out of deference to superstition—the sea had a wicked sense of humor and a ship as pretty as the _St. Christopher_ was purported to be tempted the fates. Additionally, it was sailing to Panama and she doubted it would reach St. Vincent before some enterprising pirate or an arrogant Spanish captain decided to pounce.

Charlotte was curious about the ship, but more eager to find out the terms that the fat clerk was offering and then make sure the information was passed along to the vultures at London Assurance or Royal Exchange. She knew exactly where the clerk had made his enemies. Underwriting was viciously competitive and narrowly skirted the Crown's regulations on the type of investments allowed to those outside of the two official monopolies. Given the high stakes, the personalities attracted to the game were prone to adolescent pissing contests. Charlotte was no different and felt it was her right to fight dirty since she already had to use a French puppet and hide in the shadows. She liked winning the game.

No new ships and no cracked masts, she was not a fool when it came to her investments. Furthermore, she understood the type of disaster she was wagering her money against better than any of her peers.

When Charlotte was nine years old she saw a frigate sink and disappear into the depths of the Atlantic as a result of a spectacular catastrophe. The foundering ship illuminated by flashes of lightning and burning canvas was a beautiful and terrible sight all at once. Charlotte had been only a spectator, but an appreciative one at that. Entranced by the disaster unfolding off the larboard (left) side, she remembered knelling with her nose pressed against the leaded glass of the captain's gallery until her head ached from trying to see broadside. Had she been a disobedient child—and she was not—she would have crawled out onto the balcony that wrapped around the stern and climbed to the top of the rail to get a better view. Instead, she had to content herself with the glimpses she could catch and the sounds she heard. The violent snap of the mainmast, heard, but not seen, still rang in her ears. It sounded like an explosion and the ship that she was on shuddered when the other ship's broken spars slammed into its bowsprit. She could not recall any sense of fear even though men were yelling and the ship lurched. In dreams she sometimes recalled hearing cannon fire, but not as clearly as the snap of the broken mast.

Mixed in with the excitement of the sinking ship, she remembered parts of an odd shanty sung to her by Mr. Noodle, the young man with the bandaged head, who also told her stories about his mother's Irish saints in Heaven and showed her how to tie rope-knot dolls. Charlotte treasured the bits and pieces she remembered of the night the ship sank, since there was little else she could recall so clearly from her childhood before she moved to Bristol to live with her aunt. She doubted that her memories were impaired for she remembered her mother's flower garden in Marseilles and she could still recite the prayer her father taught her to say during a storm at sea (her father didn't mention any saints). Although, she no longer knew how to tie together a doll from scraps of rope, she still remembered the song she sang with her skinny friend while the ocean burned.

They call me hanging Johnnie,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>They call me hanging Johnnie,<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

They say I hang for money,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>But saying so is funny;<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

I'd hang the highway robber,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>I'd hang the burglar jobber;<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

I'd hang a noted liar,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>I'd hang a bloated friar;<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

Come hang, come haul together,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>Come hang for finer weather,<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

I'd hang a brutal mother,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>I'd hang her and no other;<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

I'd hang to make things jolly,  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>I'd hang all wrong and folly;<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

They call me hanging Johnnie.  
><em>Horray, Hooray!<em>  
>They call me hanging Johnnie,<br>_Hang, boys, hang._

Charlotte often caught herself whistling the shanty when she was happy, yet she could not remember why the memory of the sinking ship and the broken mast also made her smile.

...

"Hangin' Johnnie Shanty" Traditional, Performance arrangement by Great Big Sea.


	3. Chapter 2

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER II**

**LOMBARD STREET, LONDON**

**JUNE 1748**

Edward Lloyd's Coffee House served only the finest coffees and, even though she preferred red wines and good brandies, Charlotte ordered a coffee for the sake of appearances. Eighteenth-century social norms excluded women from the business negotiations taking place in the coffee house much like any other venue where games of chance transpired, thus, like the gambling parlors she also frequented, Charlotte relied on her valet to transcend the bounds of propriety.

Pascal Saint-Rémy de Valois with his outrageous French fashions, powered wigs and make-up had been her constant companion for twelve years. Her professional relationship with the moody young man whose effeminate grandiosity veered toward the comedic coincided with the last time she saw her father. Few parents feel it necessary to leave their children under the watchful eye of an assassin, but her father was not the type of person to leave anything to chance. His word was absolute, no matter where he was, and Pascal's first allegiance was to his order that his daughter not leave Great Britain. Even after Charlotte shot Pascal on two separate occasions related to the order, he still refused to disobey. Looking back, she doubted that she could have gone through with her fantastic escape to Barbados. It was just as well, since she lost the same sugar plantation within the month at different card game.

"Madame, your conquests."

She snapped out of her thoughts as her smiling valet returned her carefully annotated copy of _Lloyd's List_ along with a small stack of folios containing the details of the ventures she'd agreed to underwrite. Pascal did not sit, but remained standing and his bright green frock coat captivated the curiosity of anyone who looked over in his direction. Few would forget the coat, most never noticed the woman with whom he spoke.

Charlotte's dark eyes scanned the folios and a subtle smile surfaced on her lips. As she shuffled through the papers and calculated her returns, her haphazardly constructed façade grew more transparent. Her brazen personality craved outlets with higher stakes than the presumptuous parties of her Mayfair neighbors. While always well dressed, she was not exceptionally pretty or fashionable. Even though her freckled nose and small frame made her look much younger than her thirty-three years, it also made her look quite immature. She hated the corseted gowns popular with her social cohorts, so she dressed from her vast collection of riding and hunting outfits, which gave her a predatory look like a malevolent child that had sprung from the pen of William Hogarth. Unlike the great _salonieres_ of the French Enlightenment and their counterparts in the British capital, Charlotte had few delusions about her lack of feminine wiles and did not feel the need to convince anyone of her intelligence. The venerable doyenne of London society, Elizabeth Montagu, had only spent a few minutes speaking with odd little woman and thereafter referred to her as the "exasperating-one." In return, Charlotte referred to Elizabeth Montagu as "the bitch". Despite her eagerness to turn down invitations, not surprisingly Charlotte received few.

"That's the last of the Royal Africa Company for me—they're veering toward insolvency and most likely will be reorganized under a new charter in the future." She yawned and returned some of documents to Pascal. "The African trade is lucrative, but I think the time has come to shift our investment habits further east—make sure you know where Bengal is on the map and don't get it confused with Brussels or Bermuda."

"Seriously?" Pascal sighed. "There should be rules about how many places can a have a name at any one point in time." He was a crack shot and a superb swordsman, but Pascal's sense of geography frightened Charlotte. He had only recently learned the difference between the East and West Indies.

A long moment passed before she decided not to reply. "The Atlantic is a fool's game, too many variables and the odds are all on the house—the house that Morgan built. I only tolerate pirates who buy me presents and show up in my pedigree. Otherwise, we're bound to take a beating in the next war with France and Spain. Unless," she smiled devilishly, "I'll get you a Letter of Marque and send you out to maraud in my good name."

"_C'est fou_." Pascal sneered, "I'd rather be a pickpocket than get lost in the ocean."

"It's not as though I would send you to sea in a dinghy by yourself." She shrugged.

Standing, she smoothed her dark brocade skirts and set her jaw before walking through the crowd of bewildered men who had neither seen her enter Lloyd's nor noticed her watching them from her vantage point in the corner. She reveled in their discomfort. Pascal hurried out ahead of her and opened the door of the waiting carriage.

"Captain Pascal of the mighty dinghy _The Malcontent_. Has a ring to it." She giggled as she peered into her large leather envelope. "I might buy you a flotilla of dinghies and make you Admiral of Thames, after today's returns. Will you be happier as an Admiral? I'll find you a fine hat." She grew serious. "I'll want these bonds put into Mr. Carvajal's hands this afternoon and tell him I'll be in Bristol later this week." She handed Pascal a prepared document bearing the elaborate signatures and seal of her two imaginary uncles who served as Bristol and West Indies Ltd.'s only underwriters. From Carvajal's talented hands the funds disappeared into a labyrinthine series of accounts, trusts and property investments. "What do you think, my dearest friend, shall I let you an office over at the Admiralty?"

"Tempting, but let's first change our clothes and have something to drink. I think my shoe is ruined." Pascal held out his foot and frowned at the soiled gray kid leather.

"You spilled the coffee yourself, so you can persevere or I'll be happy to take a hatchet to your foot. Choppity-chop?"

"And back to square one, you'd have a find a new me." He growled and folded his arms across his chest.

Charlotte was in too good of a mood to worry about Pascal's shoe and decided to ignore him altogether as she fixed her attention out the window. The carriage continued up Lombard Street amid the flurry of new construction taking place around Cornhill. Happily, Charlotte had been in Bristol the weekend in March when much of the ward had been consumed by fire in March.1 Lord Thomas had been in London, however, failed to notice a large portion of it burning. Lloyd's Coffee House, the Royal Exchange and most of the financial offices along Lombard Street had escaped damage. To the north the scale of destruction was profound. The narrow streets and alleys of the Old City remained conducive to devastating fires even after the reconstruction of most of the area following the Great Fire of 1666. Charlotte despaired of the loss of no less than three of her favorite milliners. Over the past decade she had squandered a small fortune at Langley's of Exchange Alley. The high-end specialty shop carried the most exquisite ostrich plumes.

The thought of ostrich feathers prompted her to open her leather envelope once more and make certain that she still had the letter from her father. Three weeks earlier a messenger had delivered the letter to Lord Thomas who used it to mark his place in a book and then lost it for a week. The moment Charlotte saw it, she recognized the handwriting and was furious that her husband had neglected to give it to her. She said nothing to the absent-minded mathematician, but fired the servant who had permitted the messenger to deliver a letter to Lord Thomas addressed to her.

Charlotte unfolded the letter and traced her fingers over the words. The handwriting was unmistakable and betrayed much about its originator. Each letter and every word had been crafted with a deliberate elegance. Her name was written with an exaggerated flourish and the salutation was "My Charlotte" not the commonplace "dear". There were no mistakes, no stray drops of ink and no hint of hesitation. Predictably, her father's letters opened with a perfunctory inquiry about her health and well being followed by a cryptic or oddly verbose explanation of his purpose for writing and the conclusion always contained an odd piece of advice or a directive he felt compelled to add. Charlotte could remember him straying from his template only once.

In the late autumn of 1740 a packet arrived in Bristol containing a collection of unsent letters, an old logbook, his will and an unsigned note from the sender that stated simply, "Left on the _Black Pearl_. Apologies." The seven unsent letters represented a five-year period from 1734-1739 and were individually dated and sealed with black wax. The contents amounted to the rambling confessions of a cursed man. She stopped reading after the second letter's disturbing account of a man sent to the bottom of sea chained to a canon and unable to die. She did not break the seals on the other five. The will included a request that she visit her mother's grave on Curacao at least once the future and among other more impressive pieces of property, bequeathed her a monkey named Jack. Charlotte spent a year trying to discretely locate a reliable source to confirm Hector Barbossa's death and placed a large private bounty on the on the head of Jack Sparrow after she heard he had stolen the _Black Pearl_. She hoped Jack Sparrow was not the monkey.

To her astonishment, on the first day of December 1742, she received a letter from her father assuring her that he was quite well and his death something of a misunderstanding. By way of offering an additional assurance that he was neither dead or nor an imposter, he concluded his letter with the proverb inscribed on her grandfather's tombstone in Bristol: "_Unos tienen las hechas, otras la fama_" or "Some are known by deeds and others by reputation."2 He had also written her to let her know he traveling to Singapore and needed her to have a good copy made of an obscure chart from the family's collection. Mr. Carvajal's son, a representative of the Dutch East India Company, delivered the copy to a William Turner in Singapore. Later that year, her father sent her an unusual crab shaped pendant made of tarnished silver and promised her that story outshone the spoils. Life seemed back to normal and their correspondence returned to its regular frequency of three or four letters throughout the year. Thus, she had not been surprised by the most recent letter's appearance in London; however, its content had caught her off guard completely.

_My Charlotte,_

_I trust that this correspondence finds you in good health and enjoying the prosperity befitting my only daughter. I beg your forgiveness for not writing sooner, but under the circumstances that have arisen I am confident that you will award me clemency for this oversight. As I have written in the past, London lacks the salubrity of most coastal towns and it attracts a foulness that must be mitigated by frequent ventures elsewhere. Furthermore, complacency is a formidable adversity and one should take pains to avoid falling victim of the status quo in the pursuit of a life unfettered by want. Subsequently, I pray that you are free of the entanglements that might inhibit your ability to travel to Bristol before the end of this month. Perchance you will be surprised to learn that I have quietly returned to England._

_My unplanned relocation is the direct consequence of a lamentable personal tragedy endured at the hands of a dishonorable cur whose name does not warrant the ink spent to reveal it. As it stands, I have lost my ship and crew as a result of a cowardly unprovoked assault by a vessel whose captain's ignorance of the Code and lack of decency outshines that of any other man I have had the misfortune to encounter. My survival hinged doubly upon the sharp blade within my reach and willingness to value life over limb. It is not my intention to alarm you or provoke undue worry, but I have lost my right leg below my knee. Do not fear for my health. Other than the mild fever and delirium I suffered for about a week following my extraordinary surgical efforts, which, mind you, were executed in the dark whilst suspended from the yardarm of a rapidly sinking ship, I survived the harrowing ordeal with considerable ease. A homeward bound Dutch frigate rescued me, but I remember little of the crossing given my fever. I stayed for a few weeks in Amsterdam with a kinsman who possesses a good reputation as a physician. Following my convalesce, I travelled with a former business associate to Bristol where I have taken up residence and attempted to restore a degree of discipline to the servants connected the house._

_Despite being encumbered by a slower gait, I plan to rectify the injustice that I have suffered at the hands of that soulless devil who cowers behind the hubris that none live who fear him not. As a matter of course, I am in need of a new ship and the service of a seasoned sober crew under the command of a complement of well-schooled and obedient officers. Given the enormity of this venture and my desire to see it executed without flaw, I require some assistance from you and I feel that it is best to discuss those details further in person._

_I would also like to meet your husband and I must express my concern regarding your last letter when you wrote that he was a "magician"? I sincerely hope that the error was in the penmanship and not in your better judgment. Nonetheless, I expect to see the two of you very soon. Prior to my introduction to your husband, I need not remind you to exercise the discretion you feel necessary regarding the particulars of my professional exploits. Additionally, would you be kind enough to order me a new hat from Langley's. My measurements are in their book as should be the specifics from my previous orders. And if you are travelling to Bristol by coach, which is terribly unsafe, make certain that you have an adequate amount powder as I worry that a member of the peerage is an easy mark for a highwayman and a "magician" probably not the type of man capable of defending his wife._

_Godspeed,_

_HB_

Charlotte refolded the letter and hoped that her father's relief that she had married a mathematician would offset his reaction to finding out that Langley's burned to the ground two months earlier.

NOTES:

1. Cornhill Fire occurred on Friday, 25 March 1748.

2 Sephardi proverb. Trans. from Ladino, "Some have their deeds, others their reputations."


	4. Chapter 3

THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL

CHAPTER III

Lord Thomas Stanhope was not a magician; however, his father was often credited for making large sums of money disappear during his tenure as First Lord of the Treasury. The elder Stanhope, a distinguished statesman and early leader of the Whig Party, had introduced legislation in 1719 that created the two maritime insurance monopolies and directly contributed to the financial catastrophe known as the South Sea Bubble. Sir Isaac Newton lost a small fortune in the speculation and ensuing financial panic, which precipitated his comment "I can only calculate the movement of the stars—not the madness of crowds." At the height of the controversy, Thomas's father suffered a stroke and dropped dead. With the sacrificial blood still wet on the altar, the great Robert Walpole seized the reins of the Whig Party, introduced corrective legislation and, ultimately, saved the day. The Stanhope family continued to wield a great deal of political influence, but less enthusiastically.

Philip, the eldest of the sons, become Earl Stanhope and occupied his father's seat in the House of Commons until King George II made him a peer in the House of Lords. The seat in the House of Commons secured by the family's rotten borough then became Thomas's responsibility. Even though his constituents consisted of three absentee landowners and two distant cousins, he regularly complained about the overwhelming stress of representative democracy and its deleterious effects on his ability to think critically. Fortunately, Mr. Walpole—now the nation's first Prime Minister—was kind enough to tell Thomas when he needed to come to Parliament to vote and made certain that on those days they served lemon tarts at tea. Even with so many friends and close family members, such as his cousins the Pitts, telling Thomas what to do, he still found politics very stressful.

The Stanhope family's political connections and relationship to the Royal Exchange Assurance and London Assurance monopolies sparked Charlotte's initial attraction to the gangly mathematician. She decided to entertain the possibility of marriage when she realized he was pleasantly oblivious to the world around him and eager to marry against his family's wishes. Thomas's rebellion stemmed from being forced to be an MP. He quickly fell for Charlotte because she told him what to do and he was a bit afraid of her. Thomas's five older sisters were not impressed with the pushy little woman and her French valet. _En masse_ they voiced their concerns to Thomas that he might be marrying a Catholic—_Barbossa_ certainly wasn't a very Protestant sounding surname. With tears in her eyes and flushed cheeks, Charlotte assured her future kinswomen, rather sincerely, that her family, although of Portuguese descent, had never been Catholic. The fellow who forged Charlotte's three generations of baptismal records from the Church of England, however, was impressively Catholic. Additionally, she also made a large "donation" to the Bristol Cathedral to have her grandfather's name "Horácio Barbossa" engraved on one of the older plaques of esteemed donors. Finding an unscrupulous churchman proved quite easy, but Charlotte was horrified when he charged her by the letter with an extra surcharge for the accent and then offered _à la carte_ pricing for supplemental documentation. Obviously, she was not the first resident in the port city to make such a request. It was only after Charlotte made the Catholic forger and the devious deacon very wealthy men that Pascal realized it would have been cheaper to a select a smaller church in Bristol, set it on fire and cry over the lost records.

The economics of forgery aside, Charlotte's marriage to Thomas went through without any further problems. However, she did not let her new in-laws' cattiness go unanswered. Once the ink had dried on the documents and the powerful uncles were all enamored with Thomas's delightful young wife, Charlotte invited her sisters-in-law to tea. After the lemon tarts were served, she informed them that if another question related to the "Britishness" of her family ever emerged, one of their children would disappear down a well and that would just be the beginning of the hell that they had unleashed. With her wickedest smile fixed on her lips and Pascal standing behind her chair, she insisted they must all become good friends and play cards at least once a fortnight. Charlotte had no domestic pretensions, but she liked to keep her house in order.

Lord Thomas was an unwilling politician, but a distinguished scholar. His singular joy in life, apart from calculus and Newtonian physics, was breeding flop eared rabbits at his Cambridge estate. Until he met Charlotte, he had never thought about marriage because his sisters did little to make him want to disrupt his home with a woman's presence and he was quite impotent. Charlotte, always two-steps ahead of her quarry, professed she had a deeper more spiritual love for him that transcended carnal desires. She also made certain to dose him with a strong licorice extract to insure he never developed any curiosity for the marriage bed—hers or anyone else's. She also never complained about how much time he spent in his library or with his rabbits at Cambridge. In return, he indulged her frequent trips to Bristol with her valet and the amount of energy she devoted to the upkeep of her familial home in her father's absence. The man Pascal called Lord Nincompoop had never expressed any interest in Charlotte's secretive behavior or raised any question about her past. His disinterest had worked to her advantage for five years, but as Charlotte thought about the impending trip it dawned on her that the tolerable stranger she had married was about to be chin deep in her private life.

The idea of traveling to Bristol did not sit well with Lord Thomas. He considered the West Country to be as remote and dangerous as the American colonies and did not like to "go on adventures to the far side of the world". Bristol was less than 120 miles from London and the trip by coach took a day and a half. Nonetheless, Thomas considered it to be quite foreign and uninviting. Charlotte had been forced to pout. She even produced a few tears as she explained how her horribly maimed elderly father desperately wanted to meet the man who had married his daughter whilst he was across the ocean teaching the greater glories of England to the less fortunate. Her husband complied the moment her lip quivered.

Understandably, Charlotte was anxious to see her father and, regardless of his insistence on being well, she was worried. The thought of him losing a ship to another pirate's brutality made her sick to her stomach—her father was invincible, people feared and respected him. She knew all of the stories stretching back to before she was born right up to the most recent ones. She had seen the way other sailors listened in reverential silence whenever some old salt told how Hector Barbossa out sailed Davy Jones going broadsides with the _Flying Dutchman_ in the middle of a maelstrom. She wondered how her husband would react to the story and what she would do if his expression fell short of adoration. Did he deserve to meet her father? Perhaps these were two worlds that needed to be kept separate.

Twenty minutes into the trip Lord Thomas demanded the driver circle back to their Mayfair home because he had forgotten his copy of Isaac Newton's _Principa Mathematica_ and only after wasting an hour looking for it did he realize it was in his coat pocket. Charlotte noted that Pascal had been forced to refill his silver flask before they made it outside of the gate the second time. Her temper remained even. She kept reminding herself that her father wanted to meet her husband and would be disappointed if she made herself a widow two hours into the trip.

The trip promised to be miserably boring and long. Lord Thomas like to read in silence. Fortunately, as a consequence of their twelve years of constant companionship, Charlotte and Pascal had perfected the ability to read each other's lips. The trick was indispensable for business dealings, but used more frequently in situations like dining or traveling with Lord Thomas.

_Your eyeliner is smeared._ Charlotte mouthed.

_Your father is going to kill your husband. Did you pack a black dress?_ Pascal returned with a smirk.

_He lost his leg, maybe he will be kind and understanding._

_Or he will have a crutch with which to beat Lord Jackass over the head._

_I might have to buy a black dress. Can I borrow your pearl choker for the funeral?_

_If I can have your red hunting coat with the gold piping and matching hat._

_Have or borrow?_

_Have, because I would need to get the sleeves altered._

_I shall expect to borrow the bracelet as well._

Lord Thomas happily reread Newton's text, while his wife and her personal assassin had a protracted conversation about what to wear to his impending funeral. Newton was his hero and he enjoyed rereading his most famous work. He took the book into the inn when they stopped at for lunch and only looked up to inform the innkeeper's wife that the soup was cold and tasteless. It was not simply Newton's words that fascinated him, but he longed to understand how Newton thought.

By next morning, Charlotte had grown steadily more frustrated with the silence and her husband's obliviousness. It was also costing her money. A fierce betting contest had emerged to determine the extreme limits of the mathematician's ignorance of his surroundings. The pot grew with each challenge. Pascal changed his clothes at the next stop. Charlotte rode for ten miles outside on the bench with the driver. Pascal held his silver plated pistol to his head. Yet, Lord Thomas never looked up from his book or turned his head. As Bristol looming on the horizon, Pascal sat across from his employer wearing neither makeup nor wig, while Charlotte had a basket of eggs sitting in her lap.

Suddenly, Lord Thomas looked up from his book and pointed excitedly out the window. "My god! Did you see that cow had a spot that looked like a heart!" He looked up at Pascal and his over to his wife without any hint he noticed anything unusual about them. "A cow with a heart-shaped spot!"

Charlotte passed the basket of eggs to the uninteresting looking Frenchman across from her and turned to face her husband. "I've been meaning to tell you that my father is the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea and has a 10,000 guinea bounty on his head. When you meet him try not say anything about parrots being superior to pet monkeys as he tends to have rather strong opinions on the subject."

She finally caught Lord Thomas's attention and he snorted like a piglet when he laughed. "Heavens! Charlotte, you are so very amusing! A pirate? There are no pirates in Bristol!"

Pascal's face contorted into a look of pained disbelief.

_I am going to throw myself out of the coach._

"No pirates in Bristol? Thomas, I grew up here. I think there must have been at least one or two, what with the port and the ships. They say Bartholomew Roberts was born just up road from here."

"Who? I don't know a Mr. Roberts. Besides why would the Caspian Sea need a pirate lord? It's an inland body of water." He smiled patronizingly. "Where do you come up with these things? Pirates in England? What would they plunder? Wool? Puddings? And what would your poor father think if he knew that you bandied about his name with such awful associations?" He slapped his knee at his cleverness. "Pirates? How delightfully funny! You women with your brilliant imaginations! It's like my sisters who after five years are still divided between those who think you're a sneaky Catholic and those who think you're a plotting Jewess. But, as I've told them, their conspiracies are completely irrational! Catholics, Jews, and pirates roaming the streets of Bristol—what's next, Turks?" He continued to laugh and Pascal joined him nervously. "Charlotte, normal is good. Your family is no different from mine, which is why I never felt the need to met any of them. We're all the same otherwise we would not have associated with each other in the first place. It's just the way the world works."[1]

"Seriously?" Charlotte was dumbstruck.

Pascal continued to giggle nervously. He giggled at hangings, too.

"My god! Look at all boats!" Lord Thomas turned his attention to the window and snapped his book shut. As the coach followed the River Avon into the heart of Bristol he grew more transfixed on the ships moored all along the busy river. "Your house is near the boats?"

"Ships," Charlotte corrected him. She watched as they passed the Llandoger Trow at the end of King Street, conveniently located across from the "offices" of Bristol-West Indies, Ltd. Charlotte's financial empire occupied a cupboard under the stairs of her family's dusty old Starboard Charts and Nautical Instruments shop. Her paternal grandfather, the son of _the_ privateer who declared his own war against the Kingdom of Portugal, opened the shop in 1670 and died at his desk fifty years later at the age of ninety. She never knew him, but she leafed through his collections of charts and learned to read from his books. The inheritance from her father's misunderstanding with death included the shop, the house and all of its contents. Charlotte placed the shop in the hands of the indispensable Mr. Carvajal and his sons and set about to repaint every room in the house. The private collections were removed to the vaults of the family's Queen Square residence, but three of the beautifully detailed fourteenth century maps from the Majorcan School she had put under glass to keep on display. Mr. Carvajal protested to no avail. Charlotte considered hiding something away for fear that it might be seen no better than the ignorance that drove others to burn it.

"Ships or boats?" Lord Thomas shrugged. "What's the difference? Apparently, both float and have sails."

"No, a boat is smaller," she did not feel like going into detail or wasting her time explaining the obvious, "it has oars and…there are fishing poles." She said first thing that popped into her head.

Lord Thomas seemed unconvinced.

"And Italians..." Pascal added with a somber nod. "Where you find boats you find Italians."

The mathematician considered the point and nodded earnestly before opening his copy of _Principia_ to make a note of the boat/ship distinction on the inside of the back cover. "So big, yet it floats. How brilliant…" he mused, "like a moving algebraic equations."

_Your father is going to eat him alive._

She struggled to be kind. "I am certain that my father knows at least a few of the captains at the quay, perhaps if you're interested in seeing one of the ships up close—"

"Heavens, no! If I fell in the river I'd drown. I'm happy at this safe distance."

"Not an algebraic equation yourself, Milord?" Pascal could not resist.

Unlike the docks on the Thames at midcentury Bristol's docks were still able to expand along the Avon to accommodate the increasing traffic. Bristol's port had functioned as its primary economic activity for centuries, thus much of the city's structure and form had been laid out to facilitate it. Whereas Charlotte characterized the chaos of the London Pool as a visceral type of commerce, Bristol always seemed more civilized like the city and its quays were one. The residential area surrounding Queen's Square dated only to the late-seventeenth century. The stately brick homes were only a short walk from the busy docks at the end of King Street and the slips all along Welsh Back. Uncle Gaspar had always said that a man who toiled for his money was a fool if he lost sight of the source of his fortunes. The ships were close enough that the watch bells echoed off the stone façades and cobblestone streets.

Charlotte remembered the countless hours spent sitting on top of an old trunk at the attic window where she had a perfect view of the masts of the ships on the river. She had ordered Mr. Noodle to climb to the top of the mainmast whenever they made port so that she would know it was her father's ship. Unwilling to douse the little girl's optimism or allow her to languish in her vigil, Aunt Amelia had Charlotte's "crow's nest" turned into a brightly lit study with a separate staircase connecting it to her room below. Each day as she studied her lessons she watched for the mainmast of _Venture Lepre_ and later the _Cobra _always expecting to see Mr. Noodle standing in the rigging. She was twenty years old before she conceded the fact that her father rarely made it back to Bristol more than once a year. Most of the children in the houses along Queen's Square kept a weather eye to the horizon as they peered through attic windows hoping to see that little bit of mast they would recognize.

As the coach stopped in front of the large three story white brick house on the corner of the Square and Mill Avenue she glanced toward the river and imagined she saw one of the old Dutch sloops her father favored for their speed in the Caribbean waters. When she looked up a second time, the slip was empty and the outstretched hand of the butler waiting to help her out of the carriage. The elderly butler looked exhausted and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Lady Charlotte, it is a pleasure to see you. Your father is waiting." He was curt.

"Well then I shan't keep him waiting." Charlotte growled as she began taking off her hat and gloves before she reached the front door being held by an equally irritable looking servant.

And then she tripped over the top step and fell flat on her face across the threshold.

Notes:

1. Bristol's Jewish community consisted of 42 openly professing individuals, most of whom lived on Temple Street in 1766. Construction of the Park Row Synagogue began in the 1760s and it opened in the 1790s.


	5. Chapter 4

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

When the architect of the house on Queen's Square hired the stonemasons responsible for finishing its outer façade, Aubry Beamister and his crew had been quite sober. Unfortunately, as Beamister grew rich from the increased demand for his work around the Square he also developed a keen taste for gin. By the time the red nosed mason got around to wrapping up his last project of 1718, he and his crew had transformed into a disorderly group of alcoholics and were no match for the uneven slope that plagued the corner property. Not only did the drunken masons face the challenge posed by the necessities of drainage along the River Avon, the house's owner, an irritable elderly cartographer, was constantly spot checking their work with a brass level. The fact that the octogenarian was a heavy drinker as well and mostly blind added to the farcical nature of the drama unfolding in Bristol's most upscale residential neighborhood. The epic battle between the drunken cartographer and the drunken masons broke up the monotony of the winter months and provided everyone on King Street with a conversation topic. Many intrepid locals braved November's frigid weather daily to stroll through the Square in hopes of not missing the anticipated murderous climax of the plot.

By the time the masons finished their work on Horácio Barbossa's house, the old man had tried on three occasions to bludgeon Aubry Beamister with his brass level and shot at him once (the misfire, according to the crowd at the Llandoger Trow, did not count). Around the third week of November, the house's London architect stood on the precipice of madness and started to show the early signs of what modern psychologist would later identify as posttraumatic stress syndrome. Mercifully, the cartographer's son-in-law, a rotund Spaniard named Gaspar Villanueva, negotiated a truce and took Horácio's level away from him so that the last of the work could be completed without bloodshed. Beamister and his happy crew were well on their way to Liverpool when it became obvious that the stonework securing the exterior façade, although structurally sound, remained slightly off by about ½ inch at the base of the doorway. The flaw proved barely noticeable and nine out of ten people who walked through the front door never knew it was there.

The tenth person, however…

On New Year's Day 1719, the cartographer's privateer son became the drunken mason's first victim the very first time he walked into the Queen's Square house. Thirty-one years later, Hector Barbossa still bore the scar under his right eye from the Ottoman accent table that had been located against the wall on the cursed side of the doorway. Not surprisingly, there was no easy remedy for the subtle, almost artistic, degree of unevenness. To correct the flaw would require removing most of the stonework around the front door and large portion of the marble floor inside. Horácio Barbossa knew he had been beaten, but refused to concede his defeat. Upon the sight of his son prostrated across the marble, he uttered what would become the family's unofficial motto, "Oh, do mind the step."

The words of her long dead grandfather echoed in her ears as Charlotte came to with her head swimming and a sharp pain radiating across the bridge of her nose. The two servants, Pascal, the surly butler and Lord Thomas converged on her, but remained at a safe distance, uncertain what to do. She sat dumbstruck with her nose bleeding and ears ringing for what seemed to be a lifetime.

"You be fetching her something for her nose or giving me cause to gut you," an exasperated, yet familiar voice, snapped at one of the servants accentuated by the measured clip of wood against marble.

Before Charlotte fully came her senses another servant had been pushed out of the way and the butler cursed before a pair of strong hands seized her under her arms and pulled to her feet. Hector Barbossa spun his daughter around to face him and gave her bloody nose a quick once-over before pressing the cold wet cloth the first servant had returned with against her face. Wide-eyed and still speechless, Charlotte could only stare mutely at the face of the man she had not seen for over a decade. While she would later blame it on the shock of taking such a fall and her broken nose, the only reaction that made sense to her was to throw her arms around her father's neck and bawl like a seven year old.

Saddled with the dead weight of his daughter clinging to his neck, Barbossa glared at Pascal. The French assassin was at an impasse—he did not know which one to fear more and subsequently was paralyzed by his confusion. Damning the worthlessness of everyone else in the room, Barbossa manhandled his hysterical daughter into the adjoining library and deposited her on the sofa. Fifty years spent on slippery decks in violent seas had afforded the old pirate a remarkable sense of balance that the loss of his leg had barely compromised. Furthermore, Barbossa's indomitable will simply would not allow for an impediment, such a missing limb, to challenge his authority.

Dropping the heavy elm crutch to the floor, he collapsed beside Charlotte on the sofa with a sigh that quickly gave way to his iconic laughter. There had been something darkly comical in the scene that had just transpired. Not surprisingly, no one else had followed them into library, Pascal remained terrified and Lord Thomas was so overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the situation he was debating the merits of bolting back out the front door. Charlotte regained some of her composure.

"I was preparing to say something to the order of how much you be looking like your mother, but you," he gestured to her nose, "pushed us off course a bit with the grand theatrics of your arrival. Your mother was quite graceful."

Charlotte wiped at her tears with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. "Well, I was going to inquire about your health and present infirmity." Her nose throbbed.

"Oh were ye now?"

"Of course," she turned to face him as she tried to be indignant, despite the ridiculousness of the situation, "you've lost your leg and," her bottom lip trembled, "your beard is gray."

With a groan he put his arm around her shoulders and tilted her head back so she did not bleed on his coat. He now remembered the difference between being a captain and being a father. The men he sailed with regarded his age as a mark of experience and any injury he survived as a testament to his cunning and strength. His daughter, however, perceived his gray hairs as the time running out on his life and the missing leg as a very close brush with death. Perhaps, this was why he had insisted that Gaspar be the one to disarm his own father in the fight with the stonemasons. "Infirmity? One leg or not, Charlotte, apparently I can still hold me own with ten stones of ballast."

Charlotte's usual demeanor surfaced and she jabbed her elbow into his ribs. "Ten stones?" She removed the towel from her nose. "Eight and half, most."

"And ye willing to put some coin behind it, precious?" Barbossa, still concerned about the possibility of blood getting on the furniture or himself, pushed the towel back to her face.

"A lady does not bet on such things." Her voice was muffled by the cloth. "However, horses or fist fights…"

"Aye, a lady! I quite near forgot—excepting the peculiar interest paid me by the widows at the Cathedral. Apparently, I've come to the attention of a number of the grand old dames around the Square given the generous donations I've made to the Church of bloody England."

"Just the formalities of a paper pedigree." Charlotte grimaced behind the bloody tea towel. She had not expected him to be offended by her expensive forgery.

"Sure and certain, I can't complain about all the pleasant company, the former Mrs. Thornhill in particular," he grinned slyly, "same as I won't be denying the practicality of our established membership in the Church, but we be discussing further the sort of papers you put me mark on." He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "_Pascal! Venez ici maintenant_," he called to the petrified assassin, "_et portez le magicien._" His French was corrupted horribly by his thick West Country accent.

Charlotte's nose had stopped bleeding. "He's actually a mathematician."

Barbossa furrowed his brow. "And that be an improvement?"

"And I believe he might speak French."

"_Pascal, o mágico __fala __francês_," he added drily over his shoulder in Portuguese. "Anything else?"

Charlotte suddenly noticed the room around her. "My god, did you repaint the walls?" The color rose in her cheeks as she realized that everything in the house she had moved had been returned to its original place. The dark paneling, paint and antiques she hated had all been reinstated in the library. She looked for the Majorcan maps.

"Restored it as ought to be." He snapped back. "Yellow, Charlotte? Not while I still draw breath."

"Where are the old maps? The ones I had under glass?"

Suddenly quite serious, Barbossa narrowed his blue eyes and lowered his gravelly voice, "Those maps survived two inquisitions and it took your great great grandfather's soul to get them out of Lisbon. Ye don't know what they be and I'll not be explaining to me own father at the end of my days why me daughter decided to use our family legacy as a decorative effect and let the sun bleach out the ink."

She met his stare evenly, but smiled sweetly. "Perhaps, then, you might want to divulge a few facts related to said family legacy." Her father was one of the only people Charlotte genuinely respected, but she had little patience for secrets—especially, the ones she did not know.

He started to respond, but held his tongue when Pascal appeared with Lord Thomas in tow. Charlotte did her best to act as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The valet's expression upon seeing his employer's nose suggested that the little fall she had taken had already started to leave its mark. Lord Thomas refused to look her as it made him queasy.

"Milord, I pray you'll forgive an old man for not getting to his feet?" Barbossa patted his knee and extended his hand, "Hector Barbossa."

Lord Thomas nodded and stepped forward to shake his father-in-law's hand. "It is my honor, sir, Captain Barbossa." He smiled broadly as his eyes darted around the room. "It truly is."

Charlotte could not disguise her surprise as she watched her husband fawn over her father. From the moment Lord Thomas witnessed the one-legged man march into the foyer, start barking orders at the servants and then actually seize his daughter, he had been deeply impressed. As far as the Royal Fellow was concerned, Hector Barbossa ascended to a status almost equal to Sir Isaac Newton with his threats to "gut" the servants.

Charlotte's father gestured to the chair on his right and Lord Thomas obediently sat down. "Me daughter tells me you study calculations. And to what end are ye studies?"

Lord Thomas beamed at the interest the older man was showing in his work. "I enjoy mathematics of all sorts, but my pursuits are devoted primarily to theoretical calculus, although I'm quite taken by the physics of the earth's rotations as well."

Barbossa nodded, yet did not seem satisfied by the answer. "And the practical application of your studies be?"

Lord Thomas paused as he attempted to formulate a response. "The practical application has to do with my efforts to define what might be called natural laws." He seemed a bit flustered by the difficulty of answering the question. "The workings of the universe might not be very practical though."

"Forgive the impertinence of an old sea captain, milord," Barbossa put his hand to his heart and allowed his heavy accent more play, "I went to sea when I was but a lad and me curiosity arises from me ignorance only. Perhaps, ye be willing to expound upon who it is that might be finding these natural laws useful?"

Over the years spent dealing with cutthroats and thieves in close quarters, Barbossa had developed a rather effective process for quickly deducing an individual's motive. From behind a self-depreciating smile and friendly blue eyes, he allowed his new acquaintance to dominate the conversation as he subtlety pushed them into corners with a few well-placed seemingly benign questions. A sprinkling of folksy colloquialisms reinforced the innocence of the little exchange. However, in a matter of minutes, Barbossa had not only permitted his victims to hang themselves, but also let them build their own gallows as well. As he practiced it, the concept of "feigned interest", was a deadly art.

One of the oft-repeated stories among the pirates who sailed under him was that the captain could read a man's soul after ten minutes of talking about the weather. Barbossa appreciated the hyperbole, yet remained a realist. He knew he was capable of making mistakes and still chided himself for believing Elizabeth Swan that night in Port Royal when she paused and looked at her feet before telling him her last name. The insight from his friendly chats had little to do with souls or intuition. Barbossa paid attention to the manner in which a question was answered even more so than the actual answer. Thus, if a sailor's responses seemed evasive, he was probably untrustworthy. If a sailor answered too quickly or provided too many details, he was either a liar or a fool and likely both. Each response factored into his calculations. However, he did not use the process to exclude sailors from a crew, instead it served to determine someone's responsibilities and limitations. A drunken liar might make a terrible quartermaster, but still be an adept gunner or good surgeon. Untrustworthy people were only dangerous when placed in positions dependent on trustworthiness. There was only one type he would not sail with by default: someone genuinely unable to explain what he was doing and his rationale for doing so. The innate selfishness of the proverbial "free spirit" was unquantifiable and dangerous.

The cat-and-mouse conversations fit neatly into Hector Barbossa's _Weltanschauung_. The sixty-three year old visualized his life and the world around him as a highly detailed navigational chart. Experience and observation helped define the vague areas of the future. Failure to periodically note and reassess one's bearings could spell disaster and only a madman ventured forth without a heading. He had learned to value precision and accuracy along with the rare ability to read five languages by copying charts under the tutelage his father. He was taught the process of creating an original chart only after he had meticulously reproduced hundreds drawn by earlier masters. A sense of urgency had overshadowed his early education as a consequence of the elder Barbossa's failing eyesight and the old cartographer frantically worked to pass on a lifetime of knowledge to his son in a matter of a few years. The prevailing urgency of his education turned the hourglass into an adversary at an early stage in his life, but he did not fear the passage of time.

Barbossa's first apprenticeship on a merchant vessel in the Baltic Sea proved disastrous. The captain was arrogant, the first mate incompetent and the crew drunk. The ship struck a Dutch brig and sunk twenty feet off of Stockholm's Skeppbron. The following year his talents combined with his natural bravado attracted the attention of the captain of the _St. George_, William Dampier—an exceptionally eccentric privateer and naturalist—and earned him an apprenticeship to the ship's sail master. Barbossa completed his first circumnavigation of the globe before his seventeenth birthday and the second followed five years later under the command of another distinguished privateer, Woodes Rogers. By the time he was twenty-five he had seen more of the world than most men did in a lifetime and had developed a deep faith for the logic behind the apparent chaos that the ocean represented. Each experience and homecoming further cemented his convictions that every facet of the human existence could be measured, charted and navigated. If anyone understood the practical application of natural law, it was Hector Barbossa.

Still grinning he interrupted his son-in-law's concentration to add, "Perhaps, I'm not making me self clear. When you finish your figurings, for what purpose might they be used?" He coaxed, "Perhaps you be contributing to the matters of calculating longitude at sea?"

"Oh no," Lord Thomas laughed, "I don't have it in my blood for the longitude debate! A bit too heady and hands on for my tastes." His momentum returned, "I believe that I would accurately characterize my work as more of matter of meandering toward bigger questions of 'why' as opposed to ones of 'how' or 'where'. I don't think that one needs to know where one is going before heading off in a particular direction."

Charlotte watched her father try to compose a civil response and seemed, for once, to be at a loss for words. She knew Lord Thomas's answer had not been the one anticipated. Charlotte, like many others who had seen her father drunk, was well apprised of father's chart based philosophies and the games he liked to play with people. Sadly, her husband was both clueless and honest. Most men attempting to ingratiate themselves with their father-in-law would have latched on to his apparent interest in longitude and simply lied.

Lord Thomas, however, decided to change the subject.

"I've noticed how close the waterfront is here in Bristol. You can see all the ships," he glanced at Charlotte for confirmation of the proper term, "just around the corner. It is quite a fascinating place. I always assumed that there wasn't really anything of note this far west or close to Wales."

"Don't get out of London much, do ye?"

"All the time, actually," he asserted, "I've a house in Cambridge—that's where I keep my rabbits and extra books."

"Rabbits?" Barbossa took a deep breath. "And what be the purpose of keeping rabbits at Cambridge?"

"They hate London," Lord Thomas pulled his chair closer, "you don't find a lot of urban rabbits. I will admit that I once saw one in Hyde Park, but he looked terribly angry and out of place." He switched topics. "This neighborhood reminds me a little bit of Mayfair, except that it's in Bristol. The African trade had been a boon to this town, but you don't see very many Africans. Do you think they'll ever have proper English cities in Africa?"

Thomas's rambling had pushed the conversation horribly off course. Charlotte hated to admit it, however, there was something entertaining in watching the mathematician run headlong into her father like a fire ship in shifting winds. The urge to laugh grew more overwhelming as she watched her father twist the heavy silver ring on his right hand and wondered if he was going to pull his finger off.

"Pascal, fetch us a bottle will ye?" He sounded desperate.

"Preference, sir?"

"Strong." The sound of his voice suggested that his patience was abandoning him. "And how exactly was it that you came into the acquaintance of me daughter?"

"Allow me to offer a preface of sorts, as it's quite a charming tale," Lord Thomas began, "a little Dutch banker introduced us at the Royal Exchange anniversary ball. I don't understand the allure of speculation and investments, but it's like a moth to the flame with Charlotte. The little banker had an oddly clever name—Gold something. Goldsmudge."

"Goldsmid?" Barbossa caught the name and shot Charlotte a warning glance. Mercifully, Pascal had returned with the butler and a bottle of brandy on a silver tray.

"That's right!" Thomas snapped his fingers and dove back into his stream of consciousness. "Delightful chap, but then again Charlotte always knows the most interesting people with really odd names—loads of Spaniards who sound Dutch, but that's kind of obvious since you've got a Spanish name. "

"Portuguese." Barbossa corrected him and finished his first glass of brandy in a single gulp. He said nothing to her, but looked directly at Charlotte.

"My apologies. I always confuse the two."

Pascal quickly poured Barbossa another glass.

"Charlotte also tells me you have a seat in Parliament. Between your Cambridge rabbits and natural laws, how might you find time for your political aspirations?"

Lord Thomas took a tiny taste of the brandy. "Dreadful!" He exclaimed and quickly added, "Politics that is—the liquor is divine." He took a bolder drink. "I despise all things political."

"I pray you that's not what ye told the electorate."

Lord Thomas thought for a moment and seemed unable to remember meeting with any of his electors. "It's only a temporary condition, akin to a curse—if such things really existed. My nephew is too young right now. When he's old enough I expect him to take over this horrible burden. Rather honestly, sir, I don't believe in all this discussion and voting. You know it killed my father out right."

"Did it now?" Barbossa was halfway into his second glass.

"He died on the floor of the Commons. Personally," he took a more substantial drink, "I'm of the opinion that power should be kept in the hands of people who already have their minds made up and don't have to resort to getting the squabbling masses to go along with it. Decisive people, sir, they are the leaders." He took another drink. "They should lead and the rest of us will be happy to follow. Last century's war was a product of indecision. The Stuarts should have been stronger, but they let the debaters in the Commons get out of control and then somebody had to drag religion into it. What a ridiculous mess! They should have hanged Cromwell and all the Roundheads at the first squeak of dissention. If I ran Britain, I'd give power to the strong ones and let them handle the rabble as they saw fit. Privilege is a birthrate, but leadership must be in the hands of people who aren't afraid to push the obnoxious ones out of the way. People like you, sir," he finished his glass and looked anxiously to Pascal for another before returning his attention to his father-in-law, "anybody will do what you say. You've always been in charge—it is quite obvious."

Pascal giggled nervously as he refilled Lord Thomas's glass.

"Oh?" Barbossa was genuinely amused. "I'm flattered by your willingness to place a crown on me head, son, but you be assuming a great deal about me all while knowing naught what I think on the matter."

Lord Thomas took another long drink. "No, I'm assuming nothing. First impressions, sir, determine our social realities." He grew more animated. "Quite frankly, you're very assertive. It's like when Charlotte walks into a room and my sisters go out of their way trying to please her out of what must be pure admiration. I don't know why, but it's just an aura. Everyone I know in London would fall over themselves to do exactly what you want them to do. Well, perhaps not Walpole," he looked up at the chandelier, "but you'd get on fabulously because you won't like the Pitts either. I know you wouldn't like the Pitts. And King George will love you dearly. If you want to be a peer all you have to do is ask because he's a ninny. I think you'd make a brilliant peer or you could take my seat in the Commons if you'd like to try it out."

"An aura?" Barbossa gave Charlotte a sideways glance.

"Thomas," Charlotte had abandoned her bloody towel for a glass of brandy, "I never knew you had any political opinions. Is this all new?"

"Not really," he shrugged, "it's just that it all suddenly makes sense." The gangly intellectual remained fixated on Barbossa. He had never imagined meeting anyone more domineering than his wife and he hoped the older man would take him up on the offer of a parliamentary career.

"Delightful." Charlotte raised her glass to him.

Unchecked Lord Thomas babbled on about various weak links in London society with regular references to the habits of flop eared rabbits mixed in for good measure. After his fourth glass of brandy he decided that he wanted a nap before dinner and abruptly ended his strange discourse by leaving the room.

The silence that descended was not unlike the morning after a terrible storm. No one said anything for several minutes. Finally, Barbossa looked at Charlotte in mild horror as he reached for his crutch and announced that he had another engagement. The butler returned with his coat and hat.

"May the devil seize me if I ever willingly sit through that again." He stood up and rubbed the back of his right thigh trying to restore circulation. "What the blazes does he do with a house full of rabbits? Does he stew'em?" He frowned at the substitute hat. It was broad brimmed, but the crown too pronounced and the band lacked character. Barbossa thought it made him look like a Dutch parson. Charlotte started to answer his question about the rabbits, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.

Carefully leaning over, he kissed her forehead and patted her on the head. A wicked smile appeared on his lips and with a chuckle he offered his assessment of her husband. "Mathematician says you, lunatic says I."

.

.

.

Two of the maids were busily unpacking her trunks and seeing to it that the room was in the order Charlotte commanded. Lord Thomas was napping across the hall. Still giggling nervously, Pascal rummaged through the wardrobe. Meanwhile, Charlotte sat at her dressing table trying to chase away the dark purple bruise under her left eye with another cold compress. An artist's array of powders and brushes covered the tabletop awaiting her resignation. She divided her attention between the bruise and the unrestricted view of the house further down Queen's Square afforded by third story window.

"Mrs. Thornhill and I have a prior engagement this afternoon, Charlotte. Had I known ye were coming I'd left me social calendar open…" Charlotte imitated her father's sing-songy voice and scowled in the general direction of Mrs. Thornhill's house.

"Oh, don't begrudge your father his widow." Pascal chided. "Mrs. Thornhill must be quite the catch to have your father watching the clock." He poked his head around the corner of the wardrobe and held up one of Charlotte's hated French ball gowns. "I love this fabric," he sighed overdramatically, "it's a pity you've never worn this dress."

Charlotte expected more commiseration from her faithful servant. She had not been amused that her father had shushed her and left for his afternoon appointment. "Pascal, I'm not giving you that gown to have made into a coat."

"Well, I'm going to need a hell of a wig and some brilliant earrings to pull it off as a gown with my man shoulders." He shot back making a face behind the safety of the wardrobe door.

"My nose looks horrible. My husband has turned into a raving idiot. My father is doing god only knows what with one of the snobbiest old bats in Bristol—as it is my father, we're speaking about, by default it is depraved. And my trusted beloved confidante and bodyguard is…" she spun around and caught Pascal unbuttoning his shirt, "trying on my dresses!"

Unabashedly, Pascal pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his shoes. "Have another drink and relax. It'll be fine. You're just upset because of your nose."

"I have good reason to be upset." She glared in the direction of the maids looking for something about which she could complain.

"Let's calm down, shall we? First off," Pascal threw the dress over his arm and darted behind the changing screen, "I'm only intrigued by the color of this glorious fabric against my skin and that is why I'm trying on your gown. Secondly, your father is your father and your mother has been dead for over twenty years. Charlotte," he continued from behind the screen, "he'll be in a good mood at dinner and you can smooth over the issue about Goldsmid and the Dutch bankers after he's had a few more drinks." After a few minutes, Pascal emerged from behind the screen and struck a Grecian pose. "_This_ is my color, my lady." He arched an eyebrow as a warning to the curious maid who had looked up from her work.

Charlotte turned around and looked at the assassin she had once seen break the neck of a three hundred pound brute whilst carrying a lace parasol and wearing heeled dancing shoes. She conceded that he looked much better in the gown than she ever had. "It really is your color." She turned back around to the mirror. "Of course, you may have it, my sweet Pascal."

"_Merci, ma __chérie_," he cooed as he curtsied and once more disappeared behind the screen. "And thirdly, while the idiocy of your beloved might have reached a new depth, he's fawning over your father to give Mrs. Thornhill a run for her money."

"I've never heard Thomas say so many words at once," Charlotte dusted her face with the powder puff, "and quite so…madly."

Pascal tossed the gown over the top of the screen for the maids to deal with and sat down on the bench next to Charlotte. "Speaking from the perspective of a man, allow me to offer a manly insight." He closed his eyes as she dusted his face with powder.

"Please do, Pascal, draw from the vast reserves of your manliness and enlighten me," she rolled her eyes as she returned her attention to covering up her bruise.

"It's quite simple actually." Gingerly, he dipped one of the fine brushes into the pot of Venetian rouge and began to outline his lips. "You must understand that your father is kind of an ideal—a heroic figure of sorts. As boys we're all told we have to be tough and decisive and courageous and bold and not cross our legs when we sit. There's a lot pressure."

"We'll you're bold and courageous and decisive, why doesn't Thomas get all gushy and inane with you?"

"Probably because, I cross my legs when I sit and I look smashing in a ball gown." He passed the lip brush to her and screwed off the top of the jar of black eyeliner. He leaned closer to the mirror as he traced the outline of his eye. "However, your father is…well, he's a bloody pirate lord, Charlotte. Chop off both his legs and put him in that ball gown and he'd still kick my ass across this room."

"How can he think of me as an adult—a capable, successful adult, if I'm married to a buffoon and start crying two minutes after I show up. I want him to be proud of me and not treat me like I'm nine years old. I could tell that he thinks I owe Goldsmid and friends money. Why would he assume that?"

"Because, Charlotte, most people do."

"I'm not most people, though," she snapped indignantly, "I'm Charlotte Maria Therese Barbossa."

"Actually, you're Lady Charlotte Stanhope, now." Pascal gently corrected her. "Honestly, think about it, the last time he saw you here you were but a twenty-one year old girl from Bristol and even then he probably thought of you as still being nine years old. Twelve years ago, nonetheless, you were brilliantly scheming, mercilessly calculating and gloriously devious—quite charming, really." He finished his other eye. "And, being honest here, your father was terrified that you were either going to end up in the Caribbean chasing at his heels or get in over your head with a belligerent jackass. He wanted you neither in the company pirates nor jackasses, so he pulled me aside one day and informed me that I was to make certain that you stayed on this island and that your virtue and interests were well defended. If I failed in my duties, he promised that he would drop what he was doing, walk across the Atlantic and kill me with his bare hands." Pascal paused. "Charlotte, my dear," he lowered his voice dramatically, "I have never doubted that your father would be that furious if I let anyone ever hurt you."

His theatrical spiel did not impress her. "Pascal, I'm me, I don't get hurt. I hurt others. People don't take advantage of me. I take advantage of them."

"That's true, quite true, but your papa looks at you and sees his nine year old little girl not Charlotte the Vengeful."

Charlotte got up as the maid came over with one of her red hunting outfits. "This is ridiculous. I'm not a little girl. It'd been easier if I were his son."

Pascal wrinkled his nose at her turned her back. "If you were his bastard son you'd probably have better fashion sense—Charlotte, dear, if you wear red you're going look like an injury." He clapped at the maid, "Tut, tut, put the red away and fetch the dark green for Lady Stanhope." After he sent the maid hurrying to the other wardrobe, Pascal looked out across the Square. "My goodness, your father definitely has a spring in his step, that Mrs. Thornhill must be a lively old jenny."

"Out, Pascal." Charlotte hissed and pointed at the door. "Go!"


	6. Chapter 5

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER V**

**.**

At the second floor landing a narrow threadbare tapestry of a goat hung from a tarnished silver rod. The unevenly frayed edges and the patches of vibrant color despite the tapestry's overall faded appearance hinted that there were some original elements missing. Only a few indecipherable scraps of the gold script remained of the intricate border that once framed the pastoral scene dominated by the prancing goat with the long beard and sharp horns. The haughty looking creature's only visible eye had an unsettling effect on anyone who contemplated the raggedy antique for too long.

Since its creation the small tapestry had graced a number of walls. In 1371 from the workshop of its Flemish designer it travelled to Majorca wrapped in fine linen and stored in a protective case made especially for the commissioned piece. On a horrific August night two decades later, a pair of frantic hands pulled the tapestry down sending its brass rod clattering to the floor and tearing away three of the tassels from its hem. The heavy cloth was used to save a book of old maps from the flames and carry it to a ship bound for the northern coast of Africa. The tapestry's savior returned to Fez twenty years later to reclaim it from beneath the floor of the merchant's home where it had been hidden. Along with the book it had defended, it was placed in a plain chest and shipped to Lisbon where it hung in a private room of the wealthy cartographer's home. History repeated itself in April 1506, but that night gentler hands removed the tapestry from the wall and in a darkened corner of a wine cellar wielded the paring knife that ripped away the script of the embellished border.

Once more the tapestry was hidden away with the book that had been saved from the fiery night on Majorca. An overly ornate crucifix assumed its place on the wall for the next eighty-two years. The Catholic ornament crafted from thirteen pounds of heathen silver was melted down into a more viable currency two days before the handwritten note reached London with the warning that the Spanish Armada had left Lisbon's harbor the night of 30 May 1588. Four months later the tapestry, the book and a frightened adolescent boy were secreted out of the Portuguese capital in a coffin. The Incan silver had not been enough to guarantee the safety of _two_ fugitives. To insure his son's flight to Amsterdam, the cartographer, whose great grandfather had brought the tapestry to Lisbon from Fez, sacrificed his own life. As an adult, the bitter orphan carried the tapestry with him when he went to sea to avenge his father's death, but the book remained with his wife and son. On a foggy January morning in 1642 the tapestry returned to the Netherlands without its owner and by way of condolence the messenger told the widow the story of the Dutch privateer's last gallant battle with the Portuguese in the Straits of Malacca. In the summer of 1670 the tapestry, once again stowed with its book, made a peaceful trip to Bristol where its owner, a much more practical-minded Dutch privateer than his father, planned to open a chart shop and marry the red headed waitress he fancied at the Llandoger Trow. Two years later, Horácio Barbossa's pretty Irish wife hung the tapestry on the wall of their home located above the shop on King Street. She understood persecution and the necessity for her son and daughter to have a sense of their history. Her husband would never have told them the stories had she not insisted. She also replaced the lost tassels and christened the proud heraldic goat, Bertie.

Charlotte wished she had known Mrs. Kathleen—the legendary woman who returned Bertie the Goat to his place of prominence and once hit her father so hard with a wooden spoon for swearing that he forgot which word had provoked her wrath and said it a second time. She had died two years before the house on Queen's Square was finished, but her presence there was strong and Charlotte had always felt as though the fiery matriarch was watching over her. When her father brought her to Bristol after her mother's death on Curaçao, her new family eased her sadness with dresses, dolls, kittens and sweets. Charlotte was given the run of the large house and everyone in it saw to it that she was happy. Bertie the Goat with his scary eye cast the only shadow on the spoiled nine-year-old's perfect new world.

Aunt Amelia assured her young niece that it was a friendly goat and told her the story behind the tapestry's travels to demonstrate how long Bertie had been an important part of the family. Amelia was too much like her father to tell a very good story and the list of dates and places did not captivate Charlotte. Defiantly, the little girl refused to be bored by the potentially interesting goat and begged her father to retell the story underscored by the threat that if he refused she would cry everyday once he returned to sea.

Faced with his daughter's threat of tears, Hector Barbossa surrendered. Charlotte remembered sitting next to him in the library that evening as he drank and wove the most incredible story she had ever heard. Barbossa exercised a small degree of artistic license and exchanged the dull tapestry for a living breathing Bertie the Goat. His version was full of narrow escapes, bloody battles, magical maps to the edges of the world and vile priests of the Inquisition lurking in the shadows. He gave life to each of the characters and delivered the villains' best lines in a ridiculously horrible combination of bad Spanish and bad Portuguese and Bertie spoke in Ladino riddles. Charlotte had picked up enough of the Sephardic _lingua franca_ living in Willemstad on Curaçao to understand Bertie, but she had to beg for the translations of the villain's dialog that caused her aunt and uncle to laugh so uproariously. Years later, whilst studying with a language teacher, she realized that her father's translations were heavily censored for her young ears.

At some point, Mr. Noodle and his uncle, Mr. Clam, came to collect their captain's sea chest and instrument case, but were so captivated by the story that they took up residence on the library floor like a pair of children at his feet. As Barbossa slurred his way to the end of the tale with its dramatic showdown between Bertie and the Irish Pope armed with a wooden spoon, three other members of his crew had joined the audience. For Charlotte that night marked the beginning of her life in Bristol.

The memory also reminded her how much the Queen's Square home always bore a strong resemblance to a ship when her father was in residence. His veteran crewmembers trailed behind him on land with the same devotion they showed at sea, albeit under the hawkish glare of Aunt Amelia any time they set foot in _her_ house. Charlotte regretted never learning their real names, yet even as a little girl she had a taste for control, which in no small part caused her to bestow the ridiculous new names on the murderous flunkies who cowered around her father. As an adult she learned more of the details about Captain Barbossa's reputation amongst pirates. Yet, despite his propensity to send annoying crewmembers to the bottom of the ocean, the majority of those who signed on to sail with him did so for decades and exhibited a fierce loyalty to him.

And that was when it occurred to Charlotte, as she stood staring at Bertie, that Mr. Noodle and Mr. Clam were probably dead.

.

.

Charlotte had not expected to find her father in a sick room playing the part of an invalid in need of his daughter to nurse him back to health. However, she remained more than a bit jealous that he had kept his other social engagements on the afternoon of her much-anticipated homecoming. Leaving Pascal to deal with her lunatic husband passed out in the guest room, she dressed hurriedly for dinner in hopes of stealing a few minutes alone with him to speak about the circumstances of his return and the assistance he expected from her. She found Barbossa in the drawing room adjacent to the formal dining room on the second floor. He had his back to the door as he looked out the window leaning on his crutch. The absence of his right leg below the knee had not compromised his stature or commanding personality and Charlotte knew that soon he would wield his crutch with the same deftness that he used with a sword.

Moreover, she found it reassuring that even if appearing worse for wear physically, his sense of style and penchant for fine clothes had not waned. The wine colored frock coat he wore had a least a pound of silver in the buttons and several week's worth of intricate embroidery work by a master tailor. The black waistcoat and loose breeches were made from an equally fine brocade fabric and the white shirt had the fashionable amount of French lace currently popular in London. She had not resolved her concerns about the gray in his scraggly beard, but noted that there was less gray in his long auburn hair that was pulled back and bound with a black ribbon. She conceded that, even though noticeably older, he still looked quite good for an old pirate. Without a doubt, Barbossa remained the dashing heroic figure that her mother had loved and her Aunt Amelia spoke of with an almost religious degree of reverence. It was as though one of the cavalier swordsmen from the Dutch paintings throughout the house had stepped away from the canvas to have drink and look out the window.

"I don't owe Goldsmid or anyone any money, I promise. Mr. Carvajal keeps my books. Quite honestly, you'd be impressed by how many of Goldsmid's crowd owe me money," she announced her presence.

"I believe what you mean to be saying is that they owe me money, Charlotte." He turned around. "According to how it's all written out, no one owes you a bleedin' thing. I seen the books with me own eyes and just how regularly you've been signing me name isn't something making me pleased."

"Under the law, I have limited options and no property rights to speak of other than my inheritance. To secure my most basic level of legally sanctioned financial independence, I would have to give birth to a male imbecile and become a widow so that I could wield power of attorney over my idiot offspring and use his name. The laws governing investment capital and dividends are devoid of such enlightened options. You're my father," she poured herself a glass of port, "it's the safest legal route to take."

"You truly believe that putting your fortune into the name of your father who is currently wanted for seventy-three charges of piracy and assorted other crimes against the sovereign authority of Crown is a particularly sound course to follow? I'd say that if I was brought before a court of law, the security of me assets wouldn't be having a leg to stand on, but the expression strikes a bit too close to home these days, so I'll just leave it at—It's a stupid idea, Charlotte. You're married to a titled politician from a good family and that be your safest legal route regardless if he's a loon with or without an appropriately daft imbecile heir." He started for one of the chairs. "Although, after meeting your husband, I doubt you'd have much trouble producing an imbecile or two."

"I'd rather not and besides it's my money." Charlotte said defensively.

"Which is quite splendid given the fact he be your husband as well." Barbossa used his good foot to scoot the end table close enough so that he could prop up his missing leg. In retrospect, he decided it was a mistake to cleave it so close to the joint when mid-shin would have been just as effective. "Don't mistake what I'm trying to say here. Sure as hell, I don't see any wisdom in making him privy to your fortune for fear he'd squander it all on a summer cottage down in Bath for those bloody rabbits. You don't have to tell him a damn thing. Betwixt you and Pascal, I imagine you can sort out a reasonable way for keeping your money safe and sound wherein he'd be none the wiser regardin' how much you've amassed."

"It's a lot of money to shuffle off under someone's else name." Charlotte dismissed his suggestion.

"Aye, that makes it more than a touch convenient that you be sharing the same name."

"Truthfully, I don't believe I like him well enough to assume the risk."

"And that be the beauty of it all, there's not a risk. You sleep in the same bed with him. There's a degree of leverage that is understood within the bounds of marriage that I be pretty certain can mitigate any financial risk."

Charlotte's face grew flushed. "Well, I don't like him that way either."

Her proclamation caught Barbossa as he was taking drink of port and what of it that did not come out his nose went into his lungs. Charlotte jumped up to pat him on the back and the surly butler rushed into the room to see if his overbearing master was going to die. Barbossa'a incredulity had not been diminished by nearly downing in expensive wine. After catching his breath and wiping the tears from his eyes, he asked the only question that could be asked following such a revelation.

"Why the hell did ye marry him then? I would hazard to presume that you could have unearthed a comparably moronic scholar with a better title that would have at least sparked a wee bit of interest south of the proverbial equator. What the hell are ye doing?"

"You're my father! The same man who has an assassin on retainer for the defense of my virtue and you're telling me to just pitch it all to the wind? I am shocked, sir."

He ignored her indignant outburst. "For the love of God and sanity, Charlotte, ye been married for five years and thirty-three years old at that. As your father and speaking possibly with the authority of any father of a daughter of the same age who has been married as long on the face of the Earth, lass, all of the delusions about your virtue that I harbored only extended to the night of the day on which you were married. At that point, those delusions became something about which I don't think, least I march up those stairs and make a eunuch out of the bastard who defiled me little girl. Delusions aside, I expected that you would have chosen to spend your life with someone that mattered to you and—" He stopped short and rubbed his temples. "I'm not going to have me daughter married to anyone under the auspices of 'good business'. The decision be yours, but you need to either find something to like about him or give him an honest divorce, which, by the way, your shiny new baptismal records will make rather easy to obtain."

Charlotte frowned. She did not understand why he kept harping on the subject. "Those papers were forged by a professional and signed off on by several distinguished members of the Anglican clergy. The documents are flawless."

"Flawless don't mean foolproof." Barbossa snapped. "Let's get straight at the brass tacks here shall we? You put my father's name on a plaque inside the Bristol Cathedral? Ye failed to consider an obvious problem wrapped up in that little falsification—the only people stupid enough to believe it are all in London and ye best be hoping that they stay there. Otherwise, all one needs to do is ask around Bristol for the name of the dead drunk Jewish cartographer who married the Irish Catholic girl from down at the pub and I swear to God that the name is going to start with B and end with an A with a pair of S's, an O, a B, an R, and another A tossed in the mix for good measure. He was about as religious as a garden slug, but me father would have beat me senseless had I pulled a stunt such as this." He grew slightly more animated. "My mother, however, was a raging Catholic and she'd murdered me straight out. Mind you that I done a lot of things to disgrace me own name, but I never would I have dreamt of going this far."

"It's only a paper pedigree, I promise you."

"Of course! And it warms me heart every bloody time ye say that, Charlotte, _and_ awards me boundless comfort to know that you'll be taking a file to that cathedral plaque with me father's name on it and removing each and every bloody letter."

"You're overreacting. I paid a small fortune for that."

"Aye, speaking then of fortunes, it would be particularly tragic if I cut ye off from ye larger fortune that happens to be in me name." He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. "Don't mistake me asking ye when I be telling ye."

"What ever will your Mrs. Thornhill think?" It was a childish retort, but she felt better for it.

"And that's the best ye can do?" He answered her challenge. "I'll let you in on a little secret. When I was a lad I was quite fond of the young Mrs. Thornhill, but I called her Miss Rachel Goldsmid, which, as you might have guessed, leaves the two of us both on pretty even footing as far as pots and kettles be concerned."

She accepted the futility of her protests, although she did not comprehend why a little false documentation and, especially, the plaque bothered him. "Fine, I'll have Pascal fetch a file."

"Now, that's daddy's good girl," he patted her hand and gave her a patronizing smile. "If we might be moving beyond the maddening farce of ye marriage and your eagerness to disgrace me name, there's a bigger problem here in need of a resolution. Appears there be a price on me head and damned to hell they all be, if the fools thinks I came back here to swing. So, I be in need of a royal pardon granting absolution for me minor transgressions against commerce and the Crown."

"A royal pardon?"

"Aye, a royal pardon."

"Concerning these minor transgressions, I'm to understand that there are actually seventy-three charges of piracy against you? Seventy-three charges—seriously, seventy-three?"

"Aye, ye clearly established the number, perhaps we can move forward now?"

"I thought you had letters of marque?"

"Aye, but…they be a few years out of date."

"Well, that's a start," Charlotte said hopefully, "it might just be a matter of having the dates corrected to address the charges? As you know, I know a fellow who has a knack for documentary augmentation."

"I'm inclined to disagree with the effectiveness of that particular strategy given that you've overlooked the fact that the letters of marque applied exclusively to French and Spanish vessels."

"You're charged with seventy-three counts of piracy against British ships?"

"Obviously," he groaned.

"They're not going to pardon you for that. What were you thinking?"

"Blame it on the strength of the English economy. Spain's going broke and the French merchant marine has gotten to be about as aggressive as anyone on the Account. In the spirit of the globalized economy and the rapidly changing maritime marketplace, I stopped paying attention to the colors a ship was flying unless it was a black flag." He explained with a shrug. "And, rather unfairly, there be plenty of old charges mixed up in there going back at least fifteen years."

"That's still quite nearly five British ships each year."

"I implore ye to get over the number, Charlotte. Not in my interest to argue about them figures lest the thirty-seven overlooked by the Crown's auditors get dredged up and tacked on to the list."

"Thirty-seven more? That makes it one hundred and ten British ships. One hundred and ten?"

"Perhaps now I be understanding your attraction to the mathematician." He smirked. "Aye, but you should take a gander at me Spanish and French charges." A self-satisfied smile graced his lips as he raised his glass. "I'll admit it does color me cheeks a bit that the Spanish crown describes the sheer volume of me little ventures as an 'obscene number'. On the other hand, the French admiralty has failed to give me credit for about three quarters of me efforts. It's insulting when ye think about it and—"

"Hold that thought," Charlotte interrupted. "Let's return to the thirty seven ships that have not been listed as acts of piracy, shall we? Of those thirty seven, how many did you sink?"

Barbossa rolled his eyes and started to count off the ships on his fingers. "Oh, I reckon about thirty seven."

"Do you remember the names of the ships or are you just indiscriminately sinking every British ship that enters the Caribbean within range of your guns."

"Charlotte, my dear," he made no effort to disguise his annoyance, "per chance ye forgot the nature of me profession?"

"No, I've not." She felt a cold sweat coming on. "I'll have you know that I have an iron clad piracy clause that I employ anytime I underwrite any ship headed anywhere near the West Indies because of your profession and you in particular. However, if an act of piracy is not recorded as an act of piracy it undermines my piracy clause, which means of the three ships that sunk in the Bahama Channel that I've had to pay out on there's an actual possibility that I have you to blame. This is madness."

"Be terribly ironic, I'd concede."

"_North Star_, _Brighton Lass_ and _Ample Bess_, recognize any of those names?"

Barbossa's face remained expressionless. "I believe that you be skirting the original issue here, this royal pardon is pretty important to me—"

"Oh hell, which one?" She cut him off.

"If ye be considering the odds, sweetie," his began with a nervous chuckle, "we be bound to have a good laugh about it all later."

"No!" she hissed. "It was all three wasn't it? What in the hell is this? Damnit! It's as though the almighty himself isn't content to simply kick my ass, but has to come up with creative and gut wrenching ways to do it using my own family."

"Maybe, he ain't none too pleased himself about ye putting me father's name on the wall of the bloody Bristol Cathedral." Barbossa taunted with a sickening air of self-righteousness.

She briefly entertained the possibility of strangling him. "You are responsible for the three ships sunk inside of a three year span that just about bankrupted me. I think I'm going to retch."

"Before you go runnin' to the rail or accusing me of conspiring against ye, allow me to offer up me professional opinion of them three."

"By all means, please do."

"Well, plain and simple, I think ye missed your mark putting money on the _North_ _Star_—sank like a bloody stone and took me carpenter and his helper down with it. Nothing sinks like that unless its hull be rotted through and through." He spoke slowly. "Could of got out and kicked it and had the same result as the teensy tiny six pounder that nipped it at the water line. When you put your money on three legged horse, Charlotte, no one's going to give ye any sympathies when ye cry about not winning."

"I suppose I should chalk that loss up to rot—which category would that be, natural causes?"

"Nay, I'd be calling that one a poor investment coupled with a right amateurish oversight on ye part, if I might add. Now as far your natural causes be going, _Brighton Lass_ serves up a better example. As it were, we caught up with her on ahead of a storm and when we left her, she was listing, but afloat. Storm turned out to be something of a wee hurricane—bit of a nasty surprise to catch one that early in the season. We, ourselves, skimmed the edge of the tempest on the north end of the Mona Pass and I had a devil of a time getting out of it as low in the water as we was running. The _Pearl_ is a solid ship—an old East Indiaman—and takes to a gale like a whore to a shilling, mind ye. Considering the _Brighton Lass_'s course when I overtook her earlier, she'd ran straight into it any how, so you could float a fair argument that she was bound to sink with or without her cargo. Probably, lasted longer without it," he paused, "after we knocked down her mizzen and half of the main."

"Oh well, thank you, Daddy, that just makes me feel so much better." Charlotte scowled contemptuously. "And what of the _Ample Bess_? Do I need to write it off as a stupid investment or the victim of Neptune's fury?"

"Oh no, that one I sunk." He nodded. "And blessed with another opportunity, I'd put her to the bottom a second time with nary a pause for contemplating me course of action or its financial consequences to you. Her captain was an insolent malapert fool that I would have run through had I been willing to foul me blade with his innards," his voice grew humorless and cold. "In fact, I should be sainted for me restraint and have a statue erected in me honor down at the Cathedral next to me father's plaque. More merciful than I ought to have been, I put out that arrogant bastard and his feckless crew in their long boat ten miles off the coast of Hispaniola. Had me temper gotten the best of me, I'd spared the time to drop each and every one of 'em off the plank in the middle of the Gulf. So, if the jackass captain, in question, when he came ashore fell short of reportin' he lost his ship to a mangy lot of pirates, such as we were," Barbossa spread his hands innocently, "well, that be more of an personnel issue on your end."

Charlotte wanted to avoid antagonizing him so close to dinner. He had been affable earlier in the day, but this side of his character she doubted would tolerate any more of Lord Thomas's babbling. Eager to move away from the topic, Charlotte agreed with him. "You were too restrained. How are you planning on going after this royal pardon?"

"Whenever a jackass is made a captain or makes himself a captain, as it often be the case with a pretentious little twit running around calling himself captain whilst having done nary a thing to earn it," Barbossa droned on, "the crew is bound to slack off and start spoiling for a fight. Only gets worse when the ship and cargo be both insured in such a way that guarantees the captain his share come hell or the Devil's Triangle. Knowing full well he'll be paid out, a man of the worst sort will sign on his crew on at the mercy of a nasty little contingency stipulating that the cargo must reach port and fetch its market value for them to get the figure they was promised in Bristol or Plymouth or wherever the hell he picks'em up. It's a dirty deal that rightfully ends with a few throats slit on the quarterdeck. Spanish tried using it back in the teens and twenties to keep their crews from surrendering too eagerly every time they thought they saw a black flag. Me and Seamus took to calling it the 'slaughter clause' since that be the usual outcome."

Charlotte knew the moment Barbossa invoked the name of his old time partner in crime he had no intention of letting the topic die. Additionally, his critiques of poor leadership could go on for hours and typically did. The subject was one of the many upon which the old pirate considered himself an expert. He was also accustomed to having an attentive troop of criminals hanging onto his every word. She imagined it had been difficult for him to adjust to being without his crew.

"This unyielding bastard of a captain of the _Ample Bess_ had been fightin' with his crew for a week and started to get paranoid a mutiny was getting steadily inevitable. He wasn't paying attention to anything else around him and the crew not particularly inclined to do much more. All in all, far from a very bright way of navigating the Bahama Channel."

"And where do you enter into this tale of irresponsibility?"

"If ye'd be a little more patient," he smirked. "Meanwhile, we're headed to Barbados to sell off fifty barrels of molasses we'd just pulled from a sloop headed to the colonies about two days off Port Royal. Might be heavy and bulky and you sure as hell don't want to break a barrel in your hold, but it be one of the easiest cargoes to sell in Barbados these days. A very sound investment." He paused to look at his glass as though toying with the idea of cutting himself off, but motioned to Charlotte to pour him another instead.

"Molasses?" She sounded skeptical.

"Rum don't grow on trees, me dear, it be distilled from molasses. Anyway, that morning about dawn, we was round ten miles behind him and I was leaving him to his distance. Morning drags on and even though we both be slightly ahead of the wind, he keeps slowing down. I sent one of the boys aloft to see if he might be bracing back either on his fore or main trying to lay by and wondering all the same if he's going to notice when I put me bowsprit through his gallery. About that time, he takes a mind to fighting the wind on a rolling sea in December and starts to cut into my course. It's an old tactic the big galleons used when they figured they was being hunted—best defense, being a good offense—but, it don't work when the ship in your quarter is bigger, carrying more guns and far from inclined to give up any sail. I can't figure if he's being aggressive because he's supposing that'll put me back or if he's just an ass. I can tell by his draft he's not carrying anything to interest me." Barbossa paused for effect. "More importantly," he pointed, "I've been sailing that channel regularly for the past forty years and to hell if I was going to alter my course to accommodate this little prick. I run up me colors. On the Account or not, I figured he'd take a hint and get the hell out of me way."

Charlotte heard Pascal and Lord Thomas come down the stairs and watched as her husband, recovered from his earlier over indulgence, stolled happily into the room. Barbossa was finally stumbling into the good part of his story and she prayed that he stuck to a vocabulary that remained beyond Lord Thomas's grasp.

"Gentlemen," Barbossa briefly acknowledge the other men who had entered the room. "Have a glass of port while I finish schooling Charlotte about the pitfalls of investing in commerce."

She traded a subtle nod to Pascal and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Lord Thomas had already seized a generous glass of port and sat down.

"Right then," Barbossa picked up where he left off and sat back in his chair to include the other two men in his story. "It don't take much more than the tactical expertise of the average cabin boy to realize if I got me colors aloft for all the world to see with a windward advantage, he probably ought stop playing around and make a run for it. He's given me crew all morning to sober up and I let'em open the larboard ports to make certain he understood my intentions. And what does he do? He keeps cutting in like we're two colliers jockeying down the Thames on Saturday afternoon fighting it out for the last slip at Billingsgate."

Charlotte was grateful that Lord Thomas had yet to say anything or give any indication of understanding anything her father was talking about. He seemed more interested in the quality of the crystal than the lesson on how to be a pirate. Barbossa continued with his lengthy build up that culminated with the other captain firing first and provoking the subsequent melee that followed.

"Generally speaking, I don't carry a red flag given as I am to a bit of a temper," he looked directly at Lord Thomas, "which means I'd be sorely tempted to use it most of the time. However, as we're coming up alongsides from the quarter, he fires and narrowly misses the _Pearl's_ figurehead, so I start looking across me deck for anyone with a red coat we could run up the main. If ye be stupid enough to fire first on me, it does nothing more than hand me cause to make certain I get the last shot and most of the ones in between." His matter-of-fact rationalizations always had more than a hint of absurdity mixed in. "Naturally, it doesn't take long for this little jackass who'd been spoiling for his fight all morning to realize he's outgunned four to one and surrender."

"Sorry," Charlotte interrupted him, "I seem to have the missed the part where the _Ample Bess_ started to sink, it seems that we've jumped ahead to the surrender."

"Nay, you've not missed it, because I didn't sink it until after he surrendered and we brought him and his sorry lot aboard to come to terms."

The twenty percent of the _Ample Bess_'s value that Charlotte had been obliged to cover remained her primary focus. She hated losing money, regardless if the captain had been a jackass. "They surrendered and you still sank it."

Barbossa smiled viciously, "And purely out of spite at that."

"Isn't there a rule that says you can't do that."

"Code only applies to those on the Account and, furthermore, after he surrendered the _Ample Bess_ became my prize to do with as I pleased."

Charlotte scowled.

Pascal clapped his hands over his mouth to arrest his laughter.

Unlike Charlotte, Barbossa seemed to appreciate that Pascal saw the humor in the situation. "I won't disagree that my actions were a bit extreme and the idea didn't occur to me until her captain marched across me deck and tried taking a swing at me with his fist." Barbossa's indignation was almost farcical. "I have never permitted a member of me _own_ crew to behave so poorly and disrespectfully on me main deck, let alone an antagonistic little blowhard from a ship I've taken. Thus, I felt compelled to make this obnoxious Royal Navy reject aware of the standard for discipline I keep on me ship by puttin' his at the bottom of the Channel. Now, you don't disagree with me there, do you, Charlotte?"

In full light of the circumstances and based upon Charlotte's own tactics for dealing with people who challenged her authority, she could not fathom her father taking a different course of action that did not involve the wholesale slaughter of the other crew. In a similar situation, she would have done the same or worse. "Undoubtedly, it was a effective means of making your point," she conceded.

"And what did you do to the captain?" Pascal beamed behind his own bloodthirsty smile. "Was he chained to the main mast or a powder keg?"

"Neither," Barbossa snapped, "had you been here earlier you'd be aware that I mercifully put him out with his crew in a long boat." He hated backtracking.

"Why?" Pascal seemed genuinely disappointed.

"This be the part that gets a bit…disturbing. Apparently, the jackass weren't one much for judging distances as his fist missed me by about a half a foot. I, however, being quite good with distances laid him flat out on me deck. I ordered me boys to send him back over to his ship to see her to the bottom. I suppose he was used to getting hit as he recovered right quick. So, he jumps up and proceeds to hurl an indelicate variety of sordid epithets in my direction," he looked at Lord Thomas again, "His lack of decorum was truly shocking."

Wide eyed, the mathematician nodded solemnly. "I'll bet."

"And no sooner do I have me pistol cocked to his forehead, do I find his ten year old cabin boy me at feet throwing a bloody fit and begging that I not kill his daddy." He noted Lord Thomas's horrified expression. "A bit awkward, to say the least, and it got more so when the quartermaster, who be his older son, starts in on an equally impassioned protest over me having _not_ already slaughtered his father and little brother. If it weren't ridiculous enough, in the midst of the family drama unfolding on me deck, the jackass's crew decides that it apparently makes good sense to stage their mutiny whilst disarmed, captive and soon to be bereft of a ship. It took twenty minutes to separate'em all. In the end, the best I could figure was that they all needed some time to work out their differences and perhaps resort to cannibalism before it was all over, so I had me boys pitch what was left of 'em off in their long boats."

"Did they eat each other?" Pascal remained hopeful that story had a gruesome ending.

"We can only hope." Barbossa seemed amused by the assassin's morbid optimism.

Charlotte could care less if the _Ample Bess_'s captain and crew had been devoured by seagulls, she still had questions about her disastrous investment. "And what of the ship's cargo?"

"Nothing to speak of. She was well provisioned and the rum locker full, but the cargo already sold and judging by how little coin was in the captain's chest, it went cheap—scarcely covered the cost of putting her at bottom of the Channel, but there was more than enough rum that me crew enjoyed the spectacle nonetheless."

"The _Ample Bess_ should have been fully loaded in the Channel, because she never made port." She ignored Lord Thomas's inquisitive look.

"I assure ye that I would have noticed otherwise given that little tragedy not only cost you, it cost me. I covered the shortfall between the salvage and cost of the shot to put her under out of me own pocket." He addressed Lord Thomas's dumbstruck look. "See that be one of the many little policies I employ to keep me crew happy and amenable to working together under sometimes adverse conditions in order to attain our broader objectives."

"You've also set some impressive examples of what happens to ones who won't—"

Barbossa silenced Pascal with a glare.

"Captain Barbossa," Lord Thomas butted in, "did you have the opportunity to make a report on the act of piracy to the Crown's navy?"

Barbossa, Pascal and Charlotte all turned at once to look at him.

"And why would _I_ be doing that?"

"Perhaps then if they located the fellows in the long boat, they could bring them to justice through a more appropriate and legal venue."

Barbossa continued to stare at him blankly.

"There were pirates involved in the incident were there not?" The mathematician attempted to clarify his point.

"The involvement of pirates be a rather safe assumption to make given the nature of some of the details in me story."

"Right," Lord Thomas nodded, "and that is why you should have reported it to the Crown."

Barbossa seemed genuinely perplexed by Lord Thomas's failure to comprehend what he saw as a rather straightforward story. "Don't make it to the theatre that often, do ye Tommy?" He stripped his son-in-law of his title for failure to grasp the obvious.

Lord Thomas happily accepted his new name and the change of subject. "No, I'm not one for plays. Theatres are crowded and the actors very noisy."

"Imagine the complicated plots can be a bit difficult to follow as well, can't they?"

"Well, now that you say it! Yes! I hate subplots and soliloquies." He seemed quite impressed by his father-in-law's perceptions. "And I never know which character to cheer for at the end. Swore off the theatre after a performance of _Julius Caesar_ several years ago—rather embarrassing when I was the only one who applauded for Brutus."

"Probably for the best, Tommy." He smiled tensely. "I'm curious as to what me Charlotte has said to you about me professional pursuits."

"Not much as I don't like to pry into her affairs. She did tell me once that you're engaged in the practice of…aggressive reactionary maritime commerce and just the other day she joked that you were the Pirate Lord of the Aral Sea."

Pascal made a choking noise.

"Caspian Sea." Charlotte corrected.

Barbossa looked at his daughter and arched a brow. "I'm impressed."

"Well, it is an impressive sounding profession, sir." Lord Thomas stopped to watch the strange Frenchman who appeared to be chewing rather violently on his hand. "The former not the latter."

"And what do ye think that entails?"

"I know it has something to do with the merchant marine and shipping."

"Aye, it does," Barbossa nodded, "any thoughts on first two adjectives there?"

"Probably connected with your apparent success. This is a beautiful home."

"I be flattered, Tommy." He then looked to Charlotte and grinned. "Pirate Lord? Me?" He laughed at the joke and Pascal joined in adding to the speed with which their laughter quickly veered toward the maniacal. "Aye, aren't she the clever one?" Barbossa caught his breath and slapped Lord Thomas's knee. "I have no idea where she comes up with these things."

Fortunately, the butler came in and announced that dinner was ready. Charlotte feared that Pascal was on the verge of a fit as he had begun to make strange squeaking noises. She would be furious if her husband's descent into lunacy claimed her personal assassin as collateral damage. The Frenchman's condition even caught Barbossa's attention and as the captain moved past him, he struck him solidly in the shin with his crutch. Pascal regained some of his composure, but still had tears running down his cheeks. Lord Thomas had started to follow Barbossa, but paused and turned to the fashionable fiend.

"Don't worry, Pascal," he said patting his arm, "I'm sure the pirates made it to land before they had to eat each other."


	7. Chapter 6

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL **

**CHAPTER VI**

The rotund Titian nude had been removed along with the two unsigned French pieces. The Dutch paintings had never been taken out of the dining room, but Charlotte had made an effort to counterbalance their oppressive bleakness with the voluptuously curved Greek goddess lounging in pastoral splendor. It seemed redundant to hang the portraits of two strangers and two distant relatives in a dark room with heavy furniture that was as much of an exercise in chiaroscuro as each of the paintings. The same artist had painted all four portraits and they had come into the possession of Charlotte's grandfather by way of an impromptu auction hastily thrown together by that artist to avoid with losing his expensive Vlooienburg home to his creditors.

To her horror and surprise, Charlotte's father had bought a fifth painting to complete the set by the mid-seventeenth century Dutch artist. The oversized dark and foreboding scene of a fishing boat caught in a storm complemented the four dark and foreboding portraits. Apparently, Barbossa had been attracted to the nautical theme, as he never expressed any previous interest in art aside from his dislike of the Titian nude hanging on dining room wall on the grounds of propriety. Barbossa's moral outrage was limited by more than a few caveats, since he professed that he would have no problem with the painting in a bedroom or a bordello, but felt it was a bit too sensual for mixed company. The Titian might have been a little too fleshy for the sedate dining room. However, Charlotte failed to see the appeal of the strange scene of sailors clamoring for broken lines and torn sails at the bow of the boat while another smaller group around the rudder confronted an oblivious looking fellow.

"Oh, that's quite new," she motioned to the painting on the far wall as she took her seat at the table, "where did you acquire that?"

"My God! What a fantastic painting of a ship!" Lord Thomas rushed over to have a closer look, stymying the efforts of the butler to see him to his seat.

"Boat," Barbossa corrected, "needs a least another mast to be a ship."

"And, in retrospect, I guess there's probably at least one Italian mixed in with the crew." Lord Thomas continued to look over the canvas.

"I suppose." Barbossa did not bother to question the comment about the possible Italian. The mathematician's ability to surprise him had begun to wane. "As to your inquiry, Charlotte, came across it in Amsterdam during me recent stay and picked it up for but a song from an dealer on Breestraat. Be the same fellow who painted the other four—Rembrandt van…something Dutch or other. And if ye be noticing, there be the artist himself," he gestured to the bottom half of the painting, "holding his hat just aft of the fellow heaving at the rail. He be the only one with sense enough to grab hold of the main brace."

Charlotte still found it too dark and gloomy, but appreciated how its size now made the other miserable portraits appear less oppressive. "Does it have a title?"

"Gent who sold it to me said it be called 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee'. Bit of a bother to get it back here, but something about the look of it got under me skin. Not certain whether I'm inclined to like it or hate it and, by my soul, I'd be hard pressed to find a worse crew sleeping in their filth on a Friday morning in Tortuga." Again, he gestured to the painting. "Take that broken halyard, nothing other than pure negligence. I swear there'd the devil to pay if I got my hands on the scurvy mongrel responsible for it."

"I love religious art!" Lord Thomas beamed as he pointed to the stern. "Look there's Jesus and, presumably, St. Mark."

Charlotte looked at it more carefully. "Oh! You're right, Thomas, that's who the bored looking fellow is. Makes sense now."

The hint of embarrassment that briefly colored Barbossa's cheeks confirmed that he had not recognized the painting's subject when he purchased it. "Well, there would have to be something miraculous transpiring since that's a daft mess of riggin' to be using on a lake that close to shore. Little boat ought to be a spritsail," he offered as a dismissive critique. "At first, I planned on keeping it me self, but the longer I stared at it the less reason I could find for it. See, that yard can't be parallel to the deck and it can't be square rigged with that kind of boom. I feared it'd drive me mad if I had to look at it everyday, so I had it put down here and had the naked harlot moved upstairs." He smiled slyly and added, "Far less complicated piece to stare at."

"I suppose the rigging is a such minor element it didn't need to be wholly accurate, what with the importance of the scene at the stern." Charlotte offered.

Barbossa disagreed. "It be too obvious an error—the artist had plenty of examples to look at hardly much of a walk from Breestraat. Secondly, considering most of the people paying for his paintings could do so because of the shipping trade it makes it too careless a mistake not to be intentional. Probably why the stories say the artist had a devil of a time getting a fair price for it. He should have paid closer attention to the details."

"Hmmm, a painting of Christ teaching his followers about the importance of their genuine faith in him or an unrealistic representation of storm rigging…" Pascal cut in with a mischievous glint to his eye, "I know that part of Amsterdam and I doubt he'd found much of a market for _either_ subject anywhere along the Breestraat."

"Why?" Lord Thomas seemed frightfully alert.

"Obviously, just about everyone in the Vlooienburg is—"

"Portuguese," Charlotte cut Pascal off.

"Don't be silly, it's a universal theme," Lord Thomas returned to his seat, "why would being Portuguese make a difference? I assume it would appeal to Catholics as much as Protestants or Calvinists or...other religious types like Anabaptists and Presbyterians."

"The Portuguese hate Dutch art." Charlotte said hoping to end the discussion before her father had the opportunity to start beating the dead horse with the falsified baptismal records in front of her husband.

"Your father bought it," Lord Thomas countered, "and I now know that your family is Portuguese and not Spanish."

"My grandmother was Irish and my grandfather was born in Amsterdam, which makes us practically Dutch." Charlotte shrugged.

"But your last name is Portuguese. We've had had that discussion today."

"He's right about that part," Barbossa sided with his son-in-law. "And we're not Dutch."

The hint of approval only emboldened Lord Thomas. "Charlotte, based upon the example we might draw from your own family being Portuguese having moved to the Netherlands with some still living in Amsterdam and your father owning a number of Dutch paintings, there is little empirical or even circumstantial evidence to support your assumption that the Portuguese population's distaste for Dutch art would be a factor in the painting not finding a ready market in Amsterdam." The Fellow of the Royal Society came dangerously close to taunting his wife.

"That doesn't mean that the Portuguese living in that particular area are very fond of the Dutch and even the ones whose tastes are amenable to Dutch art might avoid such purchases lest they offend their families in Portugal." Charlotte sighed hoping that it made her argument appear more obvious.

"You can't drag Portugal proper back into this. We're talking about Amsterdam and the Portuguese living there. Really, how Portuguese are they? You just said your grandfather was virtually Dutch."

"My grandfather was quite exceptional and well traveled, whereas everyone else in that neighborhood still harbors a great deal of ill will toward Dutch art."

"Which is probably why most everyone speaks Portuguese along the Breestraat and all around Vlooienburg." Barbossa threw an extra bit of absurdity into Charlotte's argument.

"And why don't they speak Dutch? It's the language of commerce for heavens sake!" Lord Thomas's voice grew agitated.

"They do." Charlotte tried to keep her father from adding anything else.

"But it be highly impractical," Barbossa muscled his way back into the discussion. "Food vendors won't allow it—order _huevos haminados_ in Dutch and it'll still sound Portuguese."

"Sounds Spanish, as is." Lord Thomas struggled with the inane logic.

"It be a small peninsula," Barbossa offered.

"And it's full of Spaniards, pointy iron hats and priests." Pascal chipped in not wanting to be left out of the rare opportunity to watch Charlotte squirm.

Barbossa nodded appreciatively of Pascal's creativity. "Which is why, Portugal be hanging there dangling off the edge."

"Hence, it seems like it wouldn't be any more desirable, if one were Portuguese, to move to the former _Spanish_ Netherlands. Why not stay in Portugal?"

"Ever been to Portugal?" Pascal beat Barbossa to the obvious retort.

Lord Thomas shook his head and redressed his original query. "And _this_ is why Portuguese don't like Dutch art?"

"Yes and because they don't speak Dutch." Charlotte jumped back in.

"But it's a visual representation of a religious scene with meaning throughout Christendom."

"Maybe that's the problem…" Pascal's barely audible comment escaped Lord Thomas, but earned a particularly violent glare from Charlotte.

"You must understand the deep seated animosity between the two nations had them at war for most of the last century. The Portuguese are highly irrational people," she looked at her father, "almost as bad as the French," she glared at Pascal, "therefore it's a stretch to think that they would be capable of producing a rational argument for not approving of Dutch art." She had to admit that it was an absurd enough argument that she found it nearly believable.

Lord Thomas, however, was a little less impressed. "But why then are there so many Portuguese living there?"

"Simple really," Barbossa dove back in, "because you can get around Vlooienburg without speaking a lick of Dutch or running into any Dutchmen save for a handful like that Rembrandt fellow."

The butler appeared with the soup and Charlotte almost leapt out of her chair and hugged him for the interruption.

"Well, this has been all very enlightening," Lord Thomas sighed. "You know, Charlotte, I must say that it's really rather surprising and quite remarkable, because you wouldn't expect to have so many Portuguese living in the middle of Amsterdam's old Jewish quarter. The Catholics are horribly mean spirited toward the religious minorities in their own country. Therefore, I shall raise my glass to the forward thinking Portuguese Protestants like your grandfather and father who have overcome centuries of animosity and put aside the prejudicial tendencies of their native land as they made their homes abroad."

Even the surly butler stared at the mathematician in wide eyed disbelief before Pascal fell out of his chair and Charlotte spilled her glass of red wine across the white linen tablecloth. Barbossa was the only one who appeared to relish in returning his son-in-law's toast.

Dinner proceeded rather uneventfully from that point onward. Pascal recovered from his fall without a word. Lord Thomas did his best to eat his meal, although his expression made it clear that he did not like anything on his plate. Charlotte's nose throbbed as she tried to chew and avoid making eye contact with Pascal for fear of sending him into another fit of hysterical laughter under the table. Almost mercifully, Barbossa dominated the remaining conversation with his extended spiel on the mechanics of keelhauling the disciple responsible for the shoddy rigging.

"Sir," Lord Thomas interrupted one of the captain's more horrific examples of what-not-to-do involving an anchor chain as dessert was being served, "pray tell what brings you home so unexpectedly."

Barbossa was far from finished with his discussion of the violent methods employed to maintain shipboard discipline and Pascal gave Lord Thomas a threatening look for interrupting one of his favorite topics of dinner time conversation.

"I'll get back to the particulars of Larry's other arm getting loose in a bit," the captain promised Pascal. "Right you are for asking, Tommy, but mind you I won't be mincing me words or weighing them down with any unnecessary embellishments. I came back to England, because I be needing a new ship and crew. Since Edward Teach saw fit to send the _Pearl_ to the depths, it be only reasonable that I be addressing that injustice in what ye might be apt to describe as a Newtonian fashion."

"Newtonian?" Lord Thomas perked up at his favorite word.

"You see, Tommy, I'm going to hunt Edward Teach down, run him through and watch him die. If the opportunity be presenting itself ideally, I'll also step over his still-warm corpse and kick him in the face with the only foot I've got left out of pure spite and bad sportsmanship."

"Oh, I don't recall Newton writing about that, sir." Lord Thomas hesitated.

"Aye, he proposed that for every action there be an equal and opposite reaction. In the Latin he wrote it out as something to the effect of '_actioni contrariam semper et æqualem esse reactionem_'. Third Law of motion, it was?"

"My God, you're brilliant!" Lord Thomas reverted back to his lovestruck puppy demeanor.

Charlotte regarded her father with a suspect look typically reserved for her husband. "When did _you_ read Newton?"

"Never been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time as is, but there was recently a ten year long stretch that I barely slept a wink at all leaving me to put to me advantage for catching up on me reading."

"However," Lord Thomas physically pushed Charlotte's chair aside in order to move closer to his father-in-law, "I don't know if the laws of motion apply to what sounds something like revenge."

"Don't sound like revenge, it be a matter of redress." He clarified. "Perhaps me reading be a bit broader than yours be, but the end result be no less quantifiable. Aye, Edward Teach upset me natural order when he sank the _Pearl_ and I'll be upsetting his right back." As an afterthought he added, "And I'll be requiring a royal pardon and my letters of marque and reprisal renewed, so that it be right legal and bloody ironic turn of events for the worthless wretch."

"Forgive me, but did you say Edward Teach—the Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard?" Pascal's voice was almost a whisper. "He's the devil himself. They tried to kill him over thirty years ago and it didn't take." He looked at Lord Thomas. "Say he swam around his ship headless before climbing back aboard and sailing away with his zombie crew."

Barbossa rolled his blue eyes. "Edward Teach," the revulsion he had for the name was evident, "is nothing other than a fine example of self promotion. The only reason the spineless piss themselves at the very mention of the name be because Teach sells himself as a big bloody pirate and demands everyone know it. He's set himself up as 'fearless', because he be otherwise terrified of someone unafraid of him."

"He doesn't even keep to the Code." Pascal ignored Lord Thomas's confused look as he tried to reason with Barbossa. "He's dangerous, because he's dishonorable. Other pirates avoid him."

"And I have a low opinion of those other pirates. I ain't above cheating meself, which be why I'll use Crown's maritime law and the Royal Navy with it to put him face first in his grave."

"Thank God! For a moment there, it sounded like you were going to go after this preposterous pirate monster yourself. I know I'm not the only one relieved to hear that you're going to report his acts of piracy to the Crown. They'll get him for certain!"

Once again, every one at the table turned and stared at Lord Thomas. Barbossa finally seemed to have reached the end of his patience. With a deadpan look on his face, that silenced both Pascal and Charlotte, he removed the heavy silver cufflink from his right cuff and pushed his sleeve up to reveal a large smiling skull above two crossed cutlasses imprinted in faded black ink on the inside of his right forearm. "Aggressive. Reactionary. Maritime. Commerce." He tapped the table to emphasize each word. "For the love of God, Newton and what else be important to ye, would you just try to get it, Tommy? Otherwise, we be at an impasse in our understanding of one another. For only but six months when I was thirteen years old, I served aboard a ship that could fairly be categorized as part of the merchant marine. Thereafter, I embarked on a profession that cannot be fairly categorized as part of the merchant marine unless ye be talking about the part that makes the merchant marine...risky." He picked up the cufflink and straightened his sleeve. "Additionally, I'm not the first in me family to set off on this particularly lucrative career path." He gestured to the house around him. "Quite frankly, son," his voice grew frightfully clear, "I cannot report an act of piracy to the Crown given as everything I've done for the past fifty years has been an act of piracy."

Lord Thomas stared unblinkingly at Barbossa and said nothing for several minutes.

Charlotte and Pascal simply stared at each other in silence.

"Perhaps, it helps to explain me interest in a royal pardon?" Barbossa coaxed.

"Sir," Lord Thomas finally swallowed, "that is the most impressive, incredible and awe inspiring thing I've ever heard. This is tremendously wonderful! " He jumped to his feet, climbed over Charlotte and seized his father-in-law in a horribly awkward hug. "I like you so much better than I ever liked my own father. You're just amazing. Of course, I'll see to it that there's a royal pardon for whatever you've done or plan to do or want to do. And you'll to come to London!" He hugged him tighter. "You'll come to London and yell at my brother and it will be simply magnificent!"

Barbossa tried to disentangle himself from the affectionate mathematician with obvious paternal issues. "Right," he grimaced as he patted him on the back and gently shoved him away, "then we best set your mind to writing me letters of introduction and petition."

Lord Thomas's unsettlingly gleeful smile remained undiminished as he turned to Charlotte. "Your father really is a pirate! Did you know? Are you as surprised as I am?"


	8. Chapter 7

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER VII**

.

Grateful that the long day was finally over, Charlotte snuggled up in her warm duvet surrounded by fluffy down pillows atop the expensive feather mattress and closed her eyes. Five minutes later, the butler pounded on the door and woke her up. The surly underfed man carried a covered silver platter.

"Lady Stanhope," he droned, "your father sent this." He lifted the cover to reveal a plain metal file festooned with a bright red bow. "Captain Barbossa asked that you be reminded of your religious obligations," the servant paused to retrieve a folded note whereupon he had written his script, "otherwise, he states that he will be compelled to donate, and I quote, 'a ridiculous sum of money in your name to the synagogue located off Bevis Marks in London.'" The butler sighed.

"It's after midnight." Charlotte snarled.

"He wrote this five minutes ago, my lady."

"Is he drunk?"

"Regularly and your French valet is drinking with him." He frowned. "Madame, I only ask that if this venture involves grave robbing, would you please use the side entrance and make certain to wipe your feet on the mat."

Charlotte snatched the file off the tray and slammed the door. Within ten minutes, she dressed and stormed downstairs where she located her father and trusty assassin sitting in the library. To her disdain, Charlotte noticed that Mrs. Thornhill and her sour faced henchman, Mr. Gloch, were also present. "It's after midnight." She announced as she stomped into the room brandishing the file.

"Charlotte that be hardly an appropriate way to greet our guests." Barbossa's speech was slightly slurred as he gestured to the elegant older woman with the annoyingly bright blue eyes and perfectly coifed hair that was still more blonde than gray.

"Charlotte! How you've grown up!" Rachel Thornhill smiled her maddeningly maternal smile, although from her slender figure one would never deduce that she was the mother of six grown sons. "Oh goodness, what happened to your nose, sweetie?"

"Do forgive my oversight, as it is so very late." Charlotte smiled broadly, "Mrs. Thornhill, it is a pleasure to see you again." She wondered what kind of deal with Satan the other woman had struck to avoid getting wrinkles. "You know me, I've always been a bit clumsy." She gestured to the bruise and wanted to throttle her father. "I apologize, but would you excuse me whilst I have a word with Monsieur Valois?" Her cheeks hurt from feigned politeness. "I'm certain we will have the opportunity to catch up later."

"But of course," Mrs. Thornhill nodded. "Oh Charlotte, do wait just a moment." The older woman got up and straightened the collar of Charlotte's coat. "There! We can't overlook the little details, no matter what the hour."

"Thank you, you are too kind." Charlotte thanked Mrs. Thornhill with best and emptiest heartfelt smile. She glared at her father.

.

BRISTOL CATHEDRAL

TRINTY STREET, BRISTOL

"He ought to get his priorities straight," Charlotte had been complaining about her for thirty minutes and showed no sign of reaching any sort of conclusion. "It's all, 'Oh, I'm going to run Edward Teach through and vindicate me lost ship, but right after I ravish this saucy old temptress.'" She kicked at a stone. "He needs to focus and I won't have that woman for a wicked stepmother."

"This really bothers you, milady." Pascal glanced up at her over his shoulder. "I fear you're regressing and I don't think your father is looking for a stepmother for you."

Charlotte tried to kick his backside but missed. "Traitor," she hissed.

"My devotion to you, my most precious friend, extends beyond the grave, now would you please steady the light?"

Still scowling, Charlotte held the small brass lantern while Pascal made quick work of the lock on the door to the old Norman chapter house that served as the library for the Cathedral School. Despite its age, the door swung open silently and the pair crossed the threshold and hurried along the east wall with an equal degree of stealth. The narrow opening of the lantern facilitated their undetected entry, but failed to provide much light. More than once, Pascal walked into the edge of one of the long reading tables. He tried not to think about the bruises. Fortunately, Charlotte knew the approximate location of the plaque she had paid so much money for and was now about to deface.

"_C'est __ç__a_?" Pascal peered over her shoulder as Charlotte moved closer to the wall where the narrow plaque occupied an unimaginative space between two large bookcases. Irritably, she pointed to her grandfather's name at the bottom of the list of other generous locals of suspicious origin. Pascal ran his finger over the names affixed to the plaque. "Carvajal, Lopez, Costa, Bueno, Abravanel, Landa, Mendes and…Barbossa. Good grief! More than a little obvious, you think?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Pascal." She pouted. "A coincidence, I'm sure."

"I wonder where they put the plaque commemorating all of the Dutch sounding names?" He mused as he leaned closer to inspect the letters. "Hell of a racket, if I don't say so myself. Wonder how much it costs to get a tomb in the Cathedral?" He rubbed the file across the small letters a few times and, finally, shook his head. "This isn't going to work, my dear. We can't file it off."

"What?" Charlotte moved the lamp closer to the plaque. "My father said to file it off, Pascal, and that is what we need to do. He's not going to accept any excuses."

"Look, it's impossible. The letters are too small and not raised enough for the file to do any good." He demonstrated the ineffectiveness of the proposed means by making a few abortive strokes over the name. "It's not going to come off that way."

"Pascal," she whined, "sort some thing out. My father said he wants it removed and that's what we're going to do. I don't want to be known as a philanthropist. I don't want to have to ask Lord Lunatic for an allowance. Think of your generous salary."

"Your father would probably continue to pay me from your money." He shrugged.

"Then I would tell him you make much less."

With a sigh, Pascal began searching for an alternative solution. Gingerly, he traced his fingers around the corners of the plaque. Charlotte only grew more impatient as she waited for him to come up with an idea. After nearly ten minutes of studying the plaque, Pascal set to work. Carefully, he worked the edge of the file under the left hand corner and attempted to pry the bronze from the wall. It took a stupendous amount of force before there was any hint of it loosening. Breathing hard, the usually composed Frenchman grew red faced as he braced his foot against the wall for leverage and pried ever more violently.

Charlotte stepped back. "You can do it, my dearest. I think you're making headway! Keep at it!" She encouraged the effeminate man jerking madly on the decorative element that might very well have been supporting the six hundred year old wall.

Suddenly, with a sharp crack, the bottom three quarters of the bronze plaque broke free and landed on Pascal's foot. The assassin turned cathedral burglar fell to the floor clutching his foot and biting his lip to keep from crying out. Tears streamed down his face. His eyeliner ran.

Somewhere in the cathedral a door slammed. Both the opportunistic thieves held their breath and listened for footsteps. Assured that that no one was coming, Charlotte quickly managed to pick up the heavy plaque and help her injured valet to his feet. He hobbled along on his heel in a strange parody of Charlotte's father. Their exit from the chapter house was far less graceful than their entrance, but they managed to steal away into the night without arousing any alarm.

Once a safe distance had been put between the pair and the Cathedral, Pascal began to swear as he limped along swinging the extinguished lantern angrily as though fending off imaginary assailants. Still struggling with the weight and awkward shape of the broken plaque, Charlotte swore more violently each time she dropped it. Before they reached the corner of Denmark Street on their way back to the bridge over the Frome River, she had dropped the plaque on the cobblestones a total of three times and, although she did not know it, the repeated abuse had almost accomplished the work intended for the file. However, the fourth time she dropped it, it struck something softer.

"Sweet holy Jesus! You clumsy, lass, you could kill someone with that bleeding thing!" The voice attached to the shadowy figure that jumped up in front of her startled Charlotte, but she quickly recovered from her surprise and jerked out the pistol she had tucked in her belt.

"You shouldn't sleep on the street then." She shot back.

He seemed undeterred by the small weapon held by the small woman. "Warn't sleeping, just resting me eyes!"

"And you'll be resting them permanently if you don't step out of my lady's way." Pascal pressed the barrel of his own pistol against the stranger's temple, his cold voice betraying none of his earlier agony. "Now, apologize for your indiscretion."

The sailor swallowed audibly. "Didn't mean no disrespect, Miss." He stepped aside and attempted to make an apologetic bow.

"An innocent misunderstanding, I'm sure, Mr.—"

"Gibbs. Joshamee Gibbs, ma'am." A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"Mr. Gibbs, then, you look like a strong man. Are you a strong man?" She returned her pistol to her belt.

"Depends upon what I be lifting, Miss."

"None of your concern actually," she wagged her finger playfully, "but I imagine that you'll be thirsty if you carry this parcel for me and then I'll be obliged to provide you with an appropriate libation by way of reward for your _unquestioning_ willingness to help."

"Aye!" He smiled sheepishly and nodded, but remained clearly unnerved by the pistol Pascal still held to his head.

"Right then," she purred, "just carry our little prize across the bridge and down to the chart shop at the end of King Street, which is conveniently situated across from the Llandoger Trow. I imagine that you know where the Llandoger Trow is located. Don't you?" She waited for him to nod. "Once there, I'll open you a tab and you can try to drink yourself straight into your grave, Mr. Gibbs. Now, do we have an accord?" She extended her hand.

For a moment Gibbs hesitated almost as though he seemed to recognize something familiar about her eyes and catlike grin. "Headed up that way when I stopped to rest here," he recovered from his _déjà vu_, "been keeping an eye out for a ship called the _Troubadour_ and there are too many quays in this town to keep watch on. Trying to locate a friend of mine by the name of Jack—"

"Fascinating story," Charlotte cut him off, "shall we start walking?"

"Think your friend might want to rest his arm?" Gibbs gestured to Pascal's pistol with his eyes.

At Charlotte's nod, Pascal obliged and the odd trio ambled toward the bridge in an awkward, albeit temporary, silence. Mr. Gibbs, however, considered himself a conversationalist.

"Me self, I was Born in Bath, but hadn't been back to Bristol in almost twenty years. Place ain't changed much and I suppose I don't like it any less or any more for that matter. Been sailing in Caribbean as of late. Beautiful blue water. Ever been to Caribbean, Miss?"

"Lamentably, no." She tried not to encourage the drunk.

"One of them places where you get used to seeing the extraordinary on a nearly daily basis. Sailed with a few fellows of note, my friend Jack and the other a right old twisted bastard who'd give the devil a run for his money in a contest for being wicked. Had some pretty amazing adventures though, went head to head with the kraken and the wicked bastard took us all over the edge of world in a little junk borrowed from a fellow in Singapore. Went to Davy Jones's Locker to fetch Jack and made it back to face off with Jones himself and East India Company's whole damn armada."

Charlotte's eyes narrowed and she came to a full stop before turning on Gibbs who almost tripped over his own feet to avoid running into her. "I'm curious, Mr. Gibbs, what did this 'wicked bastard' look like? Did he have name?"

"Captain Barbossa? He's a rangy old fellow with a scraggly beard, tall, dresses like one of them cavaliers dug up from last century and has strange thing for big hats and green apples. Damned nigh unbeatable with a sword, but he isn't known for fighting fair, then again, put him at the helm and he'll run full sail right up to edge of hell. If he weren't so blackhearted, I'd almost say he was right worthy of praise. You think you know him?"

Charlotte seethed, but knew better than to be forthcoming with a chatty drunk. Furthermore, they were almost half way up King Street and she did not want to try to carry the bronze by herself again. "No, I was thinking of someone else."

"Well, it is kind of a small world. Ain't seen Barbossa in a few years, but then again I don't go looking for him and ain't dumb enough to sign on with a ship going anywhere near the Bahama Channel because of him." He shrugged.

"So, it's common knowledge that this Barbossa fellow is pretty easy to find off the coast of Hispaniola and has a bad temper?"

"Aye," he nodded as though she had stated a very obvious fact. "Actually, I think there's a sign to that effect in Port Royal down by the docks."

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. "Hypothetically, Mr. Gibbs, would you say that it would be really farfetched then for a merchant captain to go looking for Barbossa and tempt the devil, so to speak, in order to cover up having sold his cargo elsewhere?"

"Farfetched?" Gibbs laughed loudly, "Well, hold your hat missy, here's a hell of a coincidence for you, I ran into a fellow a couple of years back in New Providence who did just that. Crazy fool, I have yet to figure out how he kept from getting shot. Rumor has it that he even took a swing at Barbossa to provoke him on the deck of the _Pearl_. Ain't many men stupid enough to try that, but this fellow somehow convinced Barbossa to put him and his crew off in the long boat. And get this, that sneaky captain made off with a fortune twice over since the ship was insured. Don't that beat all? Hell of a scheme! What's the world coming to when you have honest piracy running headlong into dirty fraud?"

Charlotte fought the desire to scream and clenched her fists. "This clever captain, does he live in New Providence? Does he have a fixed address?" Her voice grew more staccato with each syllable.

Gibbs paused as he thought. "No, he actually lives in London and he was so bold there in New Providence when I was talking to him that the braggart told me he goes by the name of Herrick Foe in proper social circles—his uncle was some sort of real famous novelist and rabble-rouser, but also an expert on pirates and ship insurance. Can you believe that? What a scam!"

"Herrick Foe?" Pascal repeated the name. "The fat underwriter at Barclays, Herrick Foe?"

"Well, he was a bit stocky, then again I don't have much room to talk, but I don't know where he was from." Gibbs shrugged. "Seem like you know him?"

"No." Charlotte snapped, "We were thinking of someone else."

Her hands shook angrily as she unlocked the side entrance of the chart shop at the end of King Street. The only comfort she found in the drunk's revelation was the many possible circumstances of Mr. Foe's impending death. She looked forward to his demise.

Angrily, Charlotte led Mr. Gibbs down the stairs into the dark cellar where the shop's more unique items were stored in the vaults. Pascal lit a lamp and she watched the old sailor's eyes widen in amazement at the treasures spread out around him. Draped over rods suspended from the ceiling were partially folded flags from various nations, the Dutch East India Company, the East India Company and several older variations of the skull and cutlasses her father, grandfather and great grandfather used. She noted that Gibbs wisely did not let his gaze rest too long on obscured details of the black flags and instead focused on the shelves of instruments and weapons lining the walls. She had to shake him by the shoulder to get his attention.

"Mr. Gibbs, if you'll please place our parcel on the floor and scoot it under that bookcase there." She directed him.

A belt of bells clanged as the door from inside the shop opened and a pair of heavy footsteps came down the interior set of stairs. The balding man with the large nose and baleful eyes had his pistol leveled before he reached the last step. Neither Charlotte nor Pascal seemed concerned, although Gibbs had stumbled backward away from the bookcase and threw his hands in the air.

"_Boa tarde_, Sr. Carvajal," Charlotte called out. "Truly, I apologize for waking you, but I needed to leave something here for safe keeping." She gestured to the base of the bookcase.

"And what's that?" The old man with the thick accent pointed his pistol at Gibbs.

"This is Mr. Gibbs. Our parcel was heavy and Pascal has broken at least one toe."

"Don't let him touch anything." He bowed and started back up the stairs.

"Oh, Sr. Carvajal, would you open a file on Herrick Foe for me?" She ignored Gibbs questioning look. "Remember the fat underwriter at Barclay's? I've become a bit curious about him."

The intelligent looking man nodded. "I'll see to it first thing."

"And, Sr. Carvajal, did you tell my father about the plaque?"

"Oh, yes, that I did." He laughed and continued up the stairs muttering in Portuguese.

Meanwhile, Gibbs had become interested in an ornate book open on the table. "Is this a copy of…the _Code_?"

"No." Charlotte did not even look at the book; instead, she pushed Gibbs toward the stairs where Pascal stood playing with a handful of silver coins.

"Mr. Joshamee Gibbs, born in Bath with a good friend named Jack sailing on a ship called the _Troubadour_," Pascal spoke softly as he played with the coins, "before we conclude our transaction as agreed upon. I would like to address the issue of…discretion."

"Aye." Gibbs wished the conversation were taking place somewhere above ground with a less frightening looking character.

"Now," Pascal leaned close, "in the past hour of our acquaintance, you might have heard things, seen things and, heaven forbid, thought things that you ought not. I would like to offer you a bit of friendly advice, much like the advice one's physician offers concerning how to live to a ripe old age and avoid unpleasant accidents." His nose almost touched Gibbs. "You saw nothing. You heard nothing. We are but figments of your addled drunken imagination. You will not ever think again of anything related to our encounter tonight." He put the coins into Gibbs sweaty palm. "Otherwise, Joshamee Gibbs," he smiled, "I will hunt you down and disembowel you slowly over the course of about a week before leaving you with a crate of very hungry ship rats in a cellar not unlike this one." Pascal stepped back carefully balancing his weight on his heel. "Do we understand each other?"

"Aye, sir." Gibbs heart pounded in his ears. "I understand."

"Lovely!" Charlotte clapped her hands together and Gibbs almost collapsed. "Come along, my pale Mr. Gibbs, we're all good friends here. Let's get over to the pub and open that tab. My goodness, you look like you need something to drink!" She cheerfully shoved him up the stairs.

Gibbs turned to look at the smiling little banshee with the bruised nose and suddenly he realized that there was only one other person he knew with the same strained smile combined with a perennially impatient glare whose voice dripped with undisguised exasperation. He felt sick and almost changed his mind about the open tab.

Almost.


	9. Chapter 8

**THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL**

**CHAPTER VIII**

At sea insomnia was a blessing, on land it was a curse. Although he forced himself to stay in bed until the clock chimed five, he had been awake for an hour. He decided to get up and find something more productive to do than waiting for the sun to rise. Hector Barbossa refused to think of himself as "old", but in the mornings it seemed as though every joint and scar conspired to remind him that he was sixty-three years old. With a grimace he rotated his left shoulder back as he reflected on the irony that an impromptu amputation of his lower leg gave him less trouble than a far less dramatic shoulder injury from his youth. With some of the stiffness in his shoulder worked out, he swung his left leg over the edge of the bed, pulled his heavy dressing gown on, and started to reach for his crutch. Then as an afterthought, he leaned back and patted the backside of the prone figure occupying the other half of the bed. Groggily, Rachel Thornhill raised her head out of the pillow and tried to focus in the dimly lit room.

"Ye told me to wake you up when I woke up." He explained and waited for her to respond. "I'm awake."

"Bloody hell, Hector, what time is it?" The usually elegant and refined woman was neither early in the morning.

"Reckon about five."

"Five?" She sat up and started to fumble with the buttons on the borrowed nightshirt.

Leaning back on his elbow, Barbossa grinned rakishly as he watched his childhood sweetheart. "A little late to be modest?"

"At our age? It's not modesty, Hector. It's denial." Rachel smirked and pushed his elbow out from under him. "Besides, I pitched that whole propriety thing out the window when I turned fifty-five."

"Oh, I vaguely recall a few lapses in that virtuous propriety going back to when ye were seventeen." He had a devilish glint in his eyes.

"Vaguely?" She feigned insult and patted his cheek. "I was far from vague when I was seventeen. However, aside from the various improprieties with you, James Darling and Stephen Blackwell—I was a pillar of decorum from the time of my engagement all the way to the year following Edgar's death." She leaned over temptingly and looked into his eyes. "But now—who's going to say anything about propriety?"

"Blackwell? I consider him an affront my propriety." Barbossa cringed.

"At twenty, he was neither fat nor bald and the rest of you were off playing pirates and ravishing saucy wenches in the tropics," she said defensively. "A whole generation of boys ran off into the sea and that's what turned little lumps like Blackwell into eligible bachelors. Mind you, he's still a bachelor." She paused. "If you don't like it, blame ye self. You should have come home that winter instead of traipsing around the world with that lunatic William Dampier. I would have probably married you over Edgar had you been here to ask."

Barbossa laughed. "And missed my first circumnavigation? Consider me options as they were, Rachel. From the perspective of someone studying the navigational arts, circumnavigating the globe be akin to losing one's virginal innocence." Barbossa pretended to weigh two options in his hands. "Comparably, matrimony also includes the loss of one's virginal innocence. However, as we'd already taken care of that three years earlier..."

Rachel feigned an indignant gasp. "You're an ass, Hector Barbossa, and I lied when I said I would have picked you over Edgar."

"Besides, if I would have come back and yielded to the probability of ye wiles, it would have only gotten very awkward when ten years later I met the woman I was meant to marry." He smiled. "Probably or not, there warn't no way in hell ye father would've allowed it."

"I'll concede defeat to avoidance of awkwardness between you and your first wife. And, no my father would have never allowed it—he hated you and especially your father with a blind passion." A sly grin settled on her lips. "Of course, do you know why?"

"Pray tell, what ye know."

"It was your mother." She whispered dramatically. "Your father and mine wanted the same woman. Presumably, they both saw her the same night at the Llandoger Trow and those two old men ended up fighting over an eighteen year old Irish strumpet out in the middle of King Street."

Barbossa laughed. "And thirty years his junior, she was. I've gotten older me self, I've developed a new admiration for me father. Where'd ye hear it?"

"My mother! In fact, after he died she still accused him of pining for his unrequited lost Irish love every time she had more than two glasses of wine. When I first heard it, the very thought of it horrified me—I imagine I had the same look on my face as your Charlotte when she saw me last night."

He groaned. "She's a handful. Not grown up any more than the last time I saw her and it only gets worse after ye meet me son-in-law."

"Don't be so critical. She's a spoiled child, but she's very clever, albeit a little irrational. Undoubtedly, I'm sure she's terrified that I've designs on marrying you and becoming her wicked stepmother."

"Charlotte's smarter than that—certainly, old enough to know better."

"She's an only child and that's how they think. I know this, Hector, because I was an only child. I understand her irrationality."

"Per chance, then you _would_ be amenable to being a wicked stepmother." He teased.

"Well, I suppose my six idiot sons could use a father figure to cosign their loans and the twelve ugly grandchildren need a grandfather..." Rachel taunted as she pushed him back against the pillows. "If you're looking to remarry, my old friend, you ought to find yourself a saucy little strumpet to chase after. Make all it worth your while."

"Ye want to put me in an early grave? Sweetheart, that ship sailed only once and as it is I can't keep up with a strumpet me own age."

_._

_A Little Later_

_._

Lord Thomas found his father-in-law in the smaller downstairs dining room adjacent to the kitchen drinking tea and reading what appeared to be a handwritten manuscript. Unlike many of the other rooms in the house, the informal dining room's décor differed from what the mathematician had begun to characterize as an oppressive Portuguese arrogance underscored by Dutch humorlessness. Lord Thomas had no doubt that Charlotte's mercurial temperament was an entrenched family trait that also dictated their sense of aesthetics, which served to justify the existence of the room's softer out-of-character décor. This dining room had large windows and with the drapes drawn back it was possible to see the ships on the Avon. A collection of framed botanical sketches graced the light green walls. There were also fresh cut flowers and the china cabinet did not look as though it might have originally been part of an armory. A portrait of a rosy-cheeked red headed young woman holding the leashes of a pair of wolfhounds hung over the French sideboard. Initially, Lord Thomas thought the painting was of Charlotte, but the soft colors of the woman's gown and her ample bosom suggested otherwise.

"Is that portrait of Charlotte's mother?"

"No," Barbossa did not look up, "Charlotte's mother had dark hair. Her portrait is in my study. That be me mother—Charlotte's grandmother."

"Truly a striking woman." Lord Thomas said appreciatively, but hoped he had not improperly betrayed the fact he found Charlotte's grandmother unusually attractive, especially since the portrait of her grandfather in the library gave him nightmares. "Oh, that looks interesting. What are you reading?"

Not wishing to encourage the talkative mathematician, Barbossa briefly looked up to read the title to Lord Thomas. "_La Florida del Inca: Historia del Adelantado Hernando de Soto, Governador y Capitan General del Reino de la Florida, y otros Heroicos Caballeros, Españoles y Indios._"

"Oh." Lord Thomas knew better than to ask for a translation and tried to not to disturb his father-in-law. As unobtrusively as he could, he took his seat at the table and waited for the surly butler to bring him some tea and toast. Once the tea was poured and the toast sent back as too crunchy, he removed a medicine vial from his pocket and began to struggle with the cork. He tried to dislodge it with his teeth, his butter knife and even attempted bracing it between his knees.

After a few minutes, Barbossa looked up from his reading with a strained smile. "Per chance ye need a bit of help with that?" He extended his hand and Lord Thomas relinquished the vial. He removed the cork with ease and before returning the vial he inspected the label. "Yours this is?" He gave his son-in-law a questioning look.

"It's a tonic." Lord Thomas explained.

"To say the least of it." Barbossa watched as Lord Thomas poured a large quantity of the tonic into his tea, added more sugar and drank it. "Might I inquire as to nature of that tonic?"

"Charlotte originally suggested it for my vitality," he lowered his voice. "Although, I've been taking it for years and, quite honestly, never put much stock in its efficacy until recently."

Barbossa remained skeptical. "My Charlotte suggested you take _that_ with your tea, did she?"

"Charlotte can be quite nurturing. She's always been very attentive to my health and even goes out of her way to get this particular tonic made up for me by a little Spanish chemist in Aldgate." He opened his copy of Newton's _Principia_ and removed a mangled piece of paper from between the pages. "She bought me a big bottle before I went to Cambridge, which I managed to break whilst I was searching for one of my rabbits in the garden. Naturally, I did not want to trouble her with an extra trip to the apothecary, she's so very busy with her hobbies, so when I returned to London I ventured into Aldgate all by myself to acquire a new bottle."

"How very engrossing." Barbossa replied drily.

"Even more so, I was faced with a veritable mystery!" He passed the abused bit of label to Barbossa. "See, my house rabbits like to nibble on paper, especially if it's been affixed with glue, so not only did I have to venture into Aldgate to find a Spanish apothecary, I also had to piece the word back together and figure out what the name of the tonic was! I've not had such an adventure since the time at school I was trapped in the cupboard during the St. George's Day pageant."

"Did ye think to ask the apothecary for assistance?"

"It never occurred to me that he would speak English."

An incredulous look washed over Barbossa's face. "So, you said ye noticed a difference in the efficacy of the tonic?"

"Tremendous difference. I don't know about _vitality_, but my mind is reeling. The world around me seems so much more interesting! It's like I'm in a dream, but not."

"And I imagine after a brandy or two even more so?" Barbossa's expression was deadpan

"Oh yes, it's like seeing beyond this plane of existence into the ether. It's liberating."

Barbossa seemed to weigh his words. "I'll just cut to the chase, Thomas," the old pirate sighed. "Knowing me Charlotte as I do, she probably had ye taking a licorice root extract for your _vitality_." He seized Lord Thomas's vial and placed it beside the tattered remains of the original label. "I feel compelled, son, to point out a few errors on ye part. Not because I enjoy pointing out ye errors, but I'd rather not have you poisoned by ye own hand in me house. We'll focus on the vernacular since the Latin was eaten by your rabbits?" He gestured to the remains of the original label. "Firstly, this be written in Portuguese not Spanish. Knowing that, you can more easily sort out the word _alca__ç__uz_." He pointed to the new vial. "The Spanish apothecary you visited didn't get to lay his eyes on the label, did he? Had he seen it, he would have told you it was written in Portuguese. Somehow, in the apparent absence of all common sense, ye apparently sorted out that ye needed a bottle of _ajenjo_—what that be left of the Portuguese script is a touch more ornate, so that's why they be looking a bit similar side by side here all the while they're not."

"Oh, that's brilliant!" Lord Thomas was impressed. "And, come to think of it, the Spanish apothecary was really quite surprised that I wanted this particular mixture. I assume that the Spanish licorice root is superior to the Portuguese?"

Barbossa fought to maintain his composure. "Thomas, the words mean different things—_alca__ç__uz_ is Portuguese for licorice root, but _ajenjo_ is Spanish for wormwood, which be _absinto_ in Portuguese or _absinthium_ in Latin." He waited for the mathematician to catch on. "You were taking a tonic consisting primarily of licorice extract until recently when ye went out and bought one made from wormwood, which produces a slightly opposite effect I'm sure."

"Really? Although, it tastes like licorice, I do find it bitterer." He looked at the label more closely, "It's a hell of a twist. To think that the house rabbits' appetite for Latin, an apothecary's poor penmanship and my inability to distinguish between Spanish and Portuguese has procured me a much better tonic! Happy luck, indeed! I wonder what would happen if I mixed it with the licorice root added sugar and…gin. I could be on the cusp of a brilliant medicinal discovery."

"Or lunacy," Barbossa mumbled and returned his attention to the manuscript.

Lord Thomas turned his energies to furiously scribbling his ideas in the margins of Newton's masterpiece. Ten minutes later, his creative spurt was interrupted by the arrival of his wife's valet. The academic watched in horror as Pascal hobbled awkwardly into the room, crippled by his broken toe. The wincing French assassin stumbled over to the table and collapsed into a chair.

"That's a rather insensitive parody! Monsieur Valois, you should be ashamed!" Lord Thomas scolded him as he poured more of the neurotoxic concoction into his tea. He lowered his voice ineffectively and added, "Especially with Charlotte's father sitting right here."

Barbossa rolled his eyes, but also looked skeptically at the assassin.

"A cheaply made, but heavy piece of bronze quite nearly broke my foot." He explained his injury to the captain and ignored the mathematician.

Barbossa was unsympathetic. "And were ye wearing dancing slippers, Pascal?"

"Perhaps."

"May the devil doubt it, but I say the lot of ye be cursed with clumsiness. Praise to the gods of fortune for each day that passes without one of the three of you dying!" He slammed the manuscript shut. "This complicates matters, Pascal, as I need you to have a word with an old acquaintance of mine on the way back to London. He needs to be persuaded to rely some information to me about Spanish politics and current events. Can you be persuasive hopping around like that or do we just need to cut it off and start over?"

"As long I don't have to waltz with the acquaintance in question, I don't foresee any problems." Pascal's tone was serious. "I know the Spaniard in question."

"So be it," Barbossa relented, "I'll take Charlotte and this one with me back to London and leave you to ye persuasive arts."

"We're returning to London so soon?" Lord Thomas looked up from staring at Pascal's foot. "When?"

"Tomorrow." Barbossa rubbed his temples.

"But, I was just starting to like Bristol. I walked around the square this morning and did a bit of exploring. I do believe you could raise rabbits in this environment." He took another sip of his tea. "Did you know that there is talk amongst the locals of a new residential development being planned—I believe someone called it Clifton—and it is anticipated to be of comparable quality to Queen's Square. I'm thinking that I shall get in on this early development and buy one of these nice houses planned for Clifton, since Charlotte is here so frequently and I believe my rabbits would like it. We can stay at least through next week so that I can walk around some more."

Pascal's jaw dropped.

"We be going back to London with me cousin Seamus tomorrow. I'm not paying the extortive dock fees to keep a 180 foot frigate in a slip on Welsh Back any longer than I have to." Barbossa snapped.

"Frigate? That's a boat."

"A ship, Thomas," he sighed.

"I don't…I don't—meaning I _do_ _not_—I don't travel on water."

The vein along Barbossa's temple grew more visible. "Yes, you will travel on water."

Pascal watched the color drain from Lord Thomas's face proportionately to Barbossa's rising color.

"No," he shook his head, "I do not travel on water as I don't want to drown."

"Then I suggest that _you_ keep _your_ feet firmly planted on the deck."

Lord Thomas remained defiant. "No. I am not getting onto a frigate or a ship or a boat or anything else for which one would pay docking fees. I do not like the risk associated with floating on anything."

It was like watching a tennis match between a lion and a goldfish. Pascal knew how it was going to end, but could not help reveling in the process.

"Thomas," Barbossa started to push his chair back from the table, "I didn't ask a question."

The mathematician met his father-in-law's glare. "I can't get on a ship."

"Can't might not be the right word to use as I have a mind to drag you up the gangplank me self when it comes to it."

"It would end horribly—"

"Oh, that I can assure you—"

"No, the trip would end horribly," he protested, "I had a dream about a sinking ship and I believe it to be prophetic."

"Ye be a mathematician and a bleeding Fellow of the Royal Society and ye have to gall to expect me to believe you put stock in prophetic dreams?"

"It sounds illogical, sir, but it was quite frightening and realistic."

Barbossa jumped up and started around the table demonstrating an impressive degree of balance and agility. "I can show ye frightening and realistic me self."

The gangly noble also leapt from his chair keeping the table between him and his father-in-law. "You see this dream involved a dead albatross, a drowned cat, a whistling Irishman, an iceberg and an albino woman reading from the Bible."

"Convenient that ye dream contains such a plethora of superstitious elements related to shipwrecks." Barbossa grabbed the back of the chair recently vacated by the younger man. His white knuckled grip on the chair back had nothing to do with his balance. "Why not round out the list, with sailing on Friday, waving back to an orphan at the docks, a broken masthead, the black spot, invoking the name of Davy Jones at the equator and singing to the mermaids on a moonlight night."

"Thank you," Lord Thomas folded his arms across his chest, "I shall include your suggestions for next time I tell the story of my dream, which would probably on the deck of any ship onto which I am dragged."

Pascal looked from Barbossa to Lord Thomas. Although his tactic was childish, Lord Thomas's ploy produced a stalemate. He was genuinely impressed by the silly academic's courage, but also his stupidity in thinking that he could keep out of Barbossa's reach by dancing around the table.

"Might you be more amenable to sailing if we left on Monday?" Barbossa growled leaning over the back of the chair.

"No," Lord Thomas shook his head and at the opposite end of the table, "I'm pretty much completely terrified of water regardless of the day of the week."

Barbossa seethed. "Fine, then. You'll be going back to London with Monsieur Valois."

"What?" Pascal's involuntary exclamation surprised even himself.

"I'll have you know that I am an adult capable of travelling on my own to London." Lord Thomas ignored Pascal's outburst.

"You truly be expecting that I'm to believe that? Seriously, Tommy?"

The mathematician frowned and inspected the cover of the manuscript. At length he responded, "No."

"Sir, and what I am to do with Lord Thomas, whilst I'm being persuasive?" Pascal said through clenched teeth.

"I imagine he would be fine if left at the George and Pelican Inn in Speenhamland while you attended to you business. There be a fellow in Newbury named Simon Vynck who can assist you, if it be necessary either with the Spaniard or the whiner," he looked at his son-in-law darkly. "Otherwise, you be free to take him along with you on your errand."

Pascal shook his head.

Lord Thomas pouted.

"And," Barbossa added begrudgingly as he started back to his chair, which sent Lord Thomas scurrying in the opposite direction, "entertain him through Monday as ye be needing both ye feet under you to be persuasive enough with the Spaniard in Newbury."

Lord Thomas's face suddenly brightened. "Brilliant! This is wonderful. Wonderful! I have a list of things I want to see! We'll have so much fun! It'll be better than going to Aldgate!" He hurried out of the room after his list only to return a few moments later and grab his vial of tonic and copy of Newton.

"Did I do something wrong to deserve that?" Pascal removed his flask from his pocket.

"No, but I be rather certain I'd drown him still in sight of the Grounds, if Seamus didn't shoot him at the quay." Barbossa sat down. "Trust that you'll be well compensated for ye trouble."


	10. Chapter 9

THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL

CHAPTER IX

Only one painting hung in the study. The portrait was the work of an obscure French artist whose impressive talent stemmed from his ability to commit every detail of his subjects so completely to his memory that he could reproduce an exact likeness following the briefest of encounters. While his talent had been exceptional, his poverty and alcoholism were commonplace among those sharing his profession.

Noble patrons were unlikely to be found in the waterfront taverns of a port city and like so many of his other creations the haunting portrait of the spice merchant's niece had been commissioned out of desperation to preserve a memory and the portrait's price haggled over like any other commercial transaction. The artist had abandoned his pride long before the afternoon he stumbled down the narrow streets of Istanbul beckoned by the tall sailor in the fine hat.

While the Frenchman spent only a few minutes studying her at a distance, his finished work suggested he had known her for a lifetime. Although immortalized on an average day in her youth, the bold young woman in the somber black dress smiled slyly. Her arms were folded casually across her chest and her clothing simple, but the glint in her eyes seemed to suggest that she knew the moment had been frozen in time. Astounded by the finished portrait, the patron paid the artist double the amount agreed upon and in gratitude the artist presented him with miniature version of his creation. Whereas the portrait had been shipped straight to England and enshrined in the study of the house on Queen's Square, but miniature would travel to the gates of Hell and back.

The portrait arrived in Bristol a year before she did and her first visit to see her father-in-law brought her face to face with the moment in time the artist stole from her. Betraying no surprise, she tilted her head and crossed her arms as she studied the same gestures captured on the canvas. After a few moments passed, she laughed and walked away without further comment. In the decade that followed, she sat for two additional portraits with sober Dutch artists visiting Curacao. Flat by comparison, the other portraits failed to please her. As it would be madness to tempt the sea with the likeness of a drowned woman, the other two portraits remained with the closed up house in Willemstad imprisoned with the silverware and furniture from another life.

.

A few hours earlier, one of the maids threw open the window sash and had made a point of being noisy without success. However when Charlotte finally woke up at half past noon, her headache rivaled her throbbing nose and the sunlight that bathed the room caused her to swear. She vaguely remembered a drinking contest at the Llandoger Trow and from the hangover she woke up with, she wondered if she had won. It took more than an hour for her to get dressed and stumble downstairs. The house was oddly quiet, except for the rhythmic scraping of a whetstone against metal. Charlotte doubted she would have found the noise tolerable on a good day and in her present condition it was agonizing.

Cringing she followed the noise to her grandfather's study at the back of the house where she found her father sharpening the blade of a wicked looking old cutlass. Two other similar weapons rested on the side table.

"I know that you're doing that on purpose and it is really quite cruel." She grumbled as she started for the sofa.

Barbossa regarded her coolly. "Shall I whisper as well?" He did not lower his voice.

"Wholly unnecessary for I fear that it is not the volume for your voice so much as it your assault on the English language that I find so painful."

"Be still me heart, such a charming creature," he flipped the whetstone over to use its coarser edge, "and if ye didn't look so much like me, no one would guess that such a refined lady were indeed me own daughter."

She tried to snarl, but the pain in her nose prevented it, so she kicked him in the shin as she sat down. "I believe that you have to be nice to me, since I vandalized a church in your honor last night."

"Oh do I?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you be putting it that way. Might I also express my deepest gratitude to ye for not painting this room pink."

She shrugged. "Quite honestly, it has not been used since the last time you were home. Aunt Amelia always kept it locked."

Barbossa stopped sharpening the blade. "I'm then to believe you had a copy of me will in ye hands and you weren't curious about what be in me strongbox?"

"No, I was a bit too upset that my father was dead to go poking through his effects."

"Well, I was a bit upset to be dead me self." He chuckled as he surmised the evenness of the razor sharp blade.

Her curiosity was piqued. "And what's in the box?"

"You should have had your looksee when ye were an heiress. As it is, I figure I have at least another twenty-five years in me."

"That's not fair."

"Fair? But for a mere moment ago you were distraught over my mistaken death, ye be as fickle as a…" he stopped abruptly.

Charlotte grew impatient. "Fickle as what?"

"Rightly, I don't have anything that would work there that doesn't use a whore as a point of reference. I reckon in the interests of propriety we should leave it at 'fickle' and move forward." He shrugged.

"You would not have asked whether I had taken a look, if there wasn't a reason for me to do so." She winced from the pain in her head. "What's in the box that you wanted me to find?"

He dropped the cutlass onto the side table and leaned forward. "Not so much what I wanted ye to find as to what I hoped ye wouldn't." He noted her confusion and offered further explanation. "Firstly, there be a spring-loaded blade on the door that will slice ye head clean through, if it's triggered. Secondly, there be five false lock faces similarly secured. Once that door is opened there be yet another interior panel and if you grab the handle to the second door incorrectly you'll be losing ye fingers along with triggering the other spring-loaded blade at gut level."

In spite of her hangover, Charlotte sat up straight and glared at him. "What? Are there instructions for this? Do you have a list of instructions hidden around here?" Charlotte was glad that she had not attempted to open the strongbox that was located somewhere in the room.

"Allow me to show you." Barbossa got up and hobbled over to the large antique cabinet behind his desk. He reached up with his left hand and triggered the latch at the top of the door. "There are three catches. Make sure you press the middle release on the left hand side. That be the easy one."

Bewildered Charlotte watched as her father opened the elegantly designed oriental armoire. "I thought that was a liquor cabinet."

"That would have been a mistake," he replied with a sheepish smile. Both doors opened to reveal an intricately designed lacquered door with five ornate locks arranged vertically down the center. Charlotte checked over her shoulder nervously and moved closer to her father.

"So where's the key?" she whispered.

"Not one and that be the beauty of it." He winked. "Like I said there be five false lock faces. This is what you do." He took her left hand and pressed her thumb against the bolt under the center lock then reached around her to show where to press another hidden button on the false hinge. The door opened to reveal the riveted interior panel with a simple padlock attached to a plain latch. "Fourteen down and seven over." He told her the location of the copper rivet that triggered the door. The door, hinged from the opposite side, swung open freely. The armoire's interior consisted of several rows of lacquered trays and drawers of various sizes. The bottom selves contained bound folios.

Charlotte stared blankly at the treasure in front of her.

"If you're wondering, but too polite to ask, compared to this ye little fortune be just that—_little_."

Charlotte looked over her shoulder again to make certain that they were alone. "Are the drawers triggered?" she continued to whisper.

"Open one," he suggested slyly.

Carefully, Charlotte pulled open the narrow drawer directly in front of her. The glint of a large green stone caught her eye and soon she was staring down at an emerald the size of her fist. "My god," she exhaled.

Barbossa opened the adjacent drawer to reveal another similarly sized stone. "There were three, but the third built this house." He opened one of the elongated drawers to reveal several rows of narrow silver bars. "There's about £15,000 worth of silver, unmarked for a reason and to be used only in an emergency to buy time." He snapped the drawer shut. "While there be a lot of swag and shine here, these are more valuable than the lot of it—seven generations of our charts." He pulled out a black leather book embossed with _VII_ and dropped it onto the large desk behind them.

However, Charlotte's attention remained focused on the cabinet in front of her. Amused by her wide-eyed wonder, Barbossa slid out one of the larger drawers to right of his daughter. It contained at least a dozen small journals of various designs and several large bundles of old letters. He retrieved a simple ebony box hidden under the stack of journals and placed it on the foldout tray attached to the armoire. The box contained a modest, but impressive, collection of jewelry.

He lowered his voice. "As you've been well behaved and kept ye fingers out of the other drawers. You may have one piece of ye mother's jewels."

Charlotte had forgotten about the beautiful jewelry her mother always wore, but as she looked over the pieces the memories returned. She recognized the ruby pendants, the jade bangles, the emeralds and pearls. The pearls were tempting, but she doubted that she could wear them with the same elegance that her mother had. Instead, Charlotte selected a square cut sapphire set into a heavy yellow gold band. "May I have this one?"

"It be all yours." His smile faded and he took a deep breath to steel his composure. "You should know that ye mother hated that ring. She said wanted a stone the color of the Caribbean, but I wasn't going to let her wear a topaz. That be a near flawless sapphire there," he slipped the ring onto Charlotte's finger, "but she said it wasn't what she wanted because it was the color of the Atlantic. She wasn't impressed with it." He gently closed the box. "I doubt she ever wore it."

Charlotte looked at the beautiful ring. She did not want to disagree with her father, but she knew she had seen her mother wearing the ring many times. "And did you buy her a topaz then?"

"Aye, but I never got the chance to give it to her." The catch in his voice brought tears to Charlotte's eyes. He started to close the drawer.

Charlotte's memories of her mother were sketchy, but she knew her father's were more detailed than any chart he'd ever drawn. Josephina Zacuto Barbossa's name had become so sacred that it was never mentioned and the old pirate was fiercely protective of his memories of her. As Charlotte grew older she had wanted to know more about her mother, but her father remained so heartbroken over his loss that he could not talk about her. "Wait, are those my mother's diaries and letters?" Barbossa pushed her hand out of the way and slid the drawer shut.

"Yes," he said dismissively as he turned around to the desk behind them and opened the chart book.

"I'd like to read them."

"For that ye can wait until I'm dead and buried."

"Why?"

Her questions had begun to irritate him. "Your mother had a way with words. She wrote about everything," he then repeated for emphasis, "everything."

A devilish smile crossed Charlotte's lips. "I take it they're particularly interesting from the early years of your relationship?"

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "Change the names and ye could sell it in France, but you'll be waiting until I'm dead before you take a gander."

Charlotte started to say something else, but his glare silenced her.

As he flipped through the detailed collection of charts contained in the bound volume, Charlotte caught glimpses of exotic sounding places like Dead Man's Sound along with more commonplace locales such as the Severn Estuary and Bay of Biscay. The level of detail on all of them was astounding. After Barbossa found the page for which he was looking, he moved aside to let Charlotte have a better view.

The chart outlined the navigable approaches to the Hooghly River with the seasonal tidal variations marked along with copious annotations concerning the location of sand bars and other obstacles that might impede deeper draft ships. Barbossa unscrewed the clasp to release the chart from the binding and set it aside. He closed the book, returned it to its shelf and showed Charlotte how to close the safe. Unlike the process to open the deadly armoire, closing it only required shutting the doors.

Turning around to the desk once more, Barbossa gestured to the chart. "These be ye real inheritance, each page of each one of those volumes be just about priceless to the right person. This be the sort of thing capable of bending heads of state to your will." He smoothed out the chart. "A copy, though, as all the originals are locked away in the vaults of the Livraria Montesinos. The family retains the rights to them until 1967 and till then the only ones allowed to see the originals be the direct descendants of their creators." He seemed unusually serious. "Charlotte, you ought to remember that some day you'll be the only one alive with access to all seven."

Charlotte tried to appear interested, but she doubted that she would ever need an archaic chart. "And what is this one?" She studied the highly detailed coastline, but did not recognize it.

"This gem be one of me own," he straightened the corner of the paper, "and even if ye don't think it looks like much, it's something. See, the Hooghly River connects Calcutta to the Bay of Bengal," he traced his finger across the map, "and the 120 miles from the Sandheads to the anchorage at the Port of Calcutta be one of the world's most treacherous stretches of waterway to navigate. The local pilots don't share their secrets too willingly. And to those unfamiliar with the Hooghly, its tides be unpredictable and its soundings damn near illogical—some call it a cursed river." He paused. "Which is why, this piece of paper could be the key to the expansion of the British Empire in India. You see, the little chart takes a sharp blade to venerable artery linking Calcutta to the sea and I intend to offer it up to the Lords of the Admiralty." A greedy smile settled on his lips. "India will become the jewel in the British Crown within a generation or two, just so that I can send Edward Teach to the devil."

"Before you do that," Charlotte became suddenly more appreciative of the value of the chart, "I thought that's what you wanted Thomas to do?"

Barbossa noted her interest. "Aye, that nitwit can get me a political pardon, but I require a ship of the line to go with it and that comes from the gents at the Admiralty who aren't yet swayed by the whims of the House of Hanover."

"Why sacrifice this just yet? There's plenty of capital to buy any ship you want."

"This be but a trinket compared to some of me others." He distracted her long enough to slip the map out from under her fingers. "Charlotte, ships are earned not bought and I've never risked me own ship on a venture likely to end with it at the bottom of the sea." He refolded the chart. "There also be a principle at the heart of how Edward Teach needs to die."

Charlotte groaned. "Seriously, you don't need justification—he sank the _Pearl_. Set Pascal on him and he'll slit his throat in his sleep. Think about what we can accomplish together. Let's sell it to the highest bidder. Set the French and English—"

"I don't need justification for me own vengeance, but I'm not the only one with a stake in the reckoning. Ain't no doubt about it, Teach be answering for the _Pearl_ to me, but he's also going to know that by my hand he's answering for all the others just the same." Barbossa sat down on the edge of the desk and looked into his daughter's eyes. "A part of me is to blame for him getting as far along as he has. When I figured out what he was, I should have finished him, but I didn't." He took a deep breath. "This all started right here in Bristol, round the turn of the century. He showed up one day; don't know from where or why. And he was nothing more than an angry little bastard and, by me soul, the only thing he wanted out of life was to push someone up to a fight. Didn't matter if he won or lost or if the fight was a match or not. No, Eddie Teach would follow you around hanging in the shadows until he latched on something he could say to make you take that swing." He rested his palms on his knees. "The year he showed up, me and Seamus was both thirteen. Teach was about the same, but bigger. Now that said, me and Seamus knew how to fight—we'd been throwing punches at each other since we could walk—we didn't back down from anyone excepting our mothers. Before the year was over, I probably laid Teach out fifteen times on the corner at King at Welsh Back and, yet, he kept coming back." He shook his head at the memory. "What kind of person starts a fight they can't win? While I be a right affable fellow most of the time, I'm wasn't going to stand idly and let some git walk up calling me mother an Irish whore. But, that be just what he did time again."

Charlotte tried to understand. "Was he an imbecile or self styled bully?"

"It might have made sense had he been a fool, but he had all of his faculties. He wasn't a bully either, as he didn't keep his fists to those he could best. Teach was something else, but I never could lay me finger on what it was until he took after this little fellow who wasn't even nine years old." His voice softened. "See, Paul's mother really was a whore and from the time we was seven he hung around us like a dog looking for scraps. He was a likeable kid and no one had any problem with having him in tow. We took turns making sure Paul had something to eat and kept an eye out for him. One afternoon Edward Teach caught him over by the quays on the Frome and beat the hell out of him. Right almost killed him." The memory haunted him. "He went after that sorry little boy with the same cruelty he showed in drowning Mrs. Kemple's cats. It made me sick to look at Paul, so I went looking for Teach. Of course, he was nowhere to be found whilst I was looking, but later that afternoon the arrogant bastard shows up in the middle of King Street for all the world to see. I came pretty damn close to killing him—I actually broke my hand on his face." He looked down at the scarred arthritic knuckles of his left hand. "Had Gaspar not pulled me off him when he did, I would have killed him. World would have been a better place without him." He met her gaze. "Edward Teach needs no reason for doing what he does, simple as it be, he is and always has been evil."

It seemed like an eternity passed before Charlotte knew what to say. "And what became of Paul? Did he recover?"

Barbossa laughed and nodded. "I ain't likely to ever forget the day that Paul Pintel caught up to me in the Caribbean with his sister's orphan in tow. Showed up out of the blue, right about thirty years ago. They had been pressed into the Royal Navy and jumped ship because they didn't like the food and kept getting beat for not knowing the left from right. The pair of them both sailed with me to the very end this spring when I lost the _Pearl_."

"Mr. Clam and Mr. Noodle!" Charlotte exclaimed as the memory became clear. She added an explanation, "Ragetti sounds like spaghetti, hence Mr. Noodle and Pintel sounds like seashell, so Mr. Clam." The unspoken confirmation of their deaths eroded her happiness. "I loved them, they were so kind to me."

"Masters Pintel and Ragetti were some of the best men I knew. I owe them justice." He exhaled. "Kept me sane, they did. Aye, the crossing that brought you back here after ye mother died was the longest three months of me life—I've not been able to sleep through the night since—but, had it not been for them two, I'd lost me mind. I was terrified."

Charlotte had never imagined her father afraid of anything. "Of what?"

"Of having my nine year old daughter on a ship with a large number of violent criminals in the middle of the Atlantic. I had five men on that crew I didn't trust any further than I could spit, but I couldn't put them all off as we were still below the line on the agreed upon take. I couldn't make straight for Bristol until we picked up two more Spanish ships. Mind you, they were all good pirates, but I signed them on before your mother died, so a few might well have been good pirates, but were horrible people. Before leaving Curacao, I offered Paul and his nephew an extra half each share from me profits to keep an eye on you."

"I remember they were always with me."

"And I'm still indebted to them. When we docked—just over here," he gestured to the quays on Welsh Back, "they both refused to let me pay them the share extra for keeping you. They thought the world of you, Charlotte, and didn't think it right to accept coin for something they'd done regardless." He took her hands in his and looked at the sapphire ring. "It be a humbling thing to realize that someone else would be willing to die protecting something you hold so close to ye own heart." He suddenly seemed embarrassed by his sentimentality and dropped her hands as he got off the edge of the desk and walked over to a more imposing cabinet than the booby-trapped Chinese armoire. Nonchalantly, he opened the doors and removed a decanter of brandy.

"I'll remember that is liquor cabinet." She followed him. "Is that a painting of the _Cobra_ or _Venture Lepre_?" Charlotte pointed to the framed sketch of a ship on the shelf behind the decanters.

Barbossa passed the brandy to her as he retrieved the little sketch. "The _Venture Lepre_ was the first ship I owned outright. I'd been sailing with Woodes Rogers since I was a fifteen-year-old brat and that old bastard had such a way of making enemies he truly appreciated the few friends he had. Never another like Rogers, he made it about as far as a pirate masquerading as a privateer might go—bloody governor of the Bahamas. He was a rich man for a time and forwarded me the money to buy the canvas, but I had to duel with a pompous Spaniard to get the rest of the ship. I wasn't twenty five old." He laughed. "First, thing I did was went and liberated Seamus from a colonial jail in the Carolinas—charge leveled against him be vagrancy not piracy—and for the rest of the bloody year we ran the skinniest unpaid crew around and we chased naught until we were the fastest ship in the Caribbean and I'd sorted out every sandbar and shoal I could think to use to our advantage." His faded blue eyes lit up at the memory. "Those years were the stuff legends are spun from."

Charlotte returned the heavy decanter to the shelf. "Perhaps, but how did you come up with that dreadful name?"

"Pure accident. An illiterate carpenter patched up the stern from the damage caused by Rogers' bow chaser when we took it. Was nearly a year later that I looked at the letters and noticed they'd been nailed back on in the wrong order. Her proper name, rather ironically, was the _Ventrue Perle_ or Bulging Pearl. When I realized we be sailing in a ship rechristened, in part, after a social disease, I sure as hell wasn't about to tempt fate and switch me luck by changing the name back to something more respectable."

Charlotte did not care that it hurt her nose to smile. She could not help but laugh. "I don't think that I would have underwritten a ship with that name."

"On its bones alone neither would I, but a ship be more than her masts and keel or what she's carrying in her hold. Her real quality can't be measured in knots or promised fiscal return. A ship be only as sound as her crew and that's what you ought to be investing in. You'd truly know whether or not to underwrite one if ye'd spend a minute looking at the feet and hands on the men responsible for the canvas, check if the undercarriages on the guns are clean, walk through the galley midmorning, put your hands on the joist work under the main deck and even read through the middle pages in the log. It be more than a little frightening when you think about it, but a good crew under a good captain can float a leaky barrel across the Atlantic with nary a problem; whereas, just the opposite will sink a first rate ship of the line on her virgin voyage into the English Channel. You be gambling too much when you put your money on timber anytime ye real investment relies on flesh and blood."

"I'll have you note that the only ships I've lost have been thanks to you."

"Too late in the day to venture back into those stagnant waters, Charlotte. However, I'll have ye know that the _Pearl_ had a cracked mizzen ye could see from the dock and every other one of the stanchions on the gun deck needed to be replaced." He set the sketch back on the little shelf. "You don't have the years on ye to know everything, my dearest," he chuckled, "but if ye be inclined to take a walk down to the quay with your old father, I'll teach ye a few tricks on how to size up a ship properly." He offered her his arm. "And the air will take the edge off your hangover."


	11. Chapter 10

THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL

CHAPTER X

Twenty-two years had passed since the pirate in the big black hat had carried his nine-year-old daughter from the quay on Welsh Back to the house at Queen's Square; however, time seemed to fold back upon itself as Charlotte walked alongside her father toward the ships moored along the Avon. Even after having been absent for many years, Captain Barbossa remained a recognizable local figure and the family's maritime exploits were still remembered. Charlotte relished the celebrity that came with being the famous pirate's daughter. She forgot about her broken nose and throbbing hangover. Barbossa also enjoyed his notoriety and basked in the attention he received—such an honor was not meted out indiscriminately in a homeport claimed by scores of famous pirates.

Bristol's wealth came in with the tides. The port remained the type of place where the difference between privateering and pirating had always been an issue of semantics and little else. More than a dozen of the impressive houses on Queen's Square had been paid for with letters of marque or activities condoned by such documentation. Yet, a casual observer would never suspect that so many of the stately homes had been built and occupied by men belonging to such an uncivilized profession. While there was no shame in being a successful pirate, many captains underwent a strange transformation after their boots touched the cobblestone streets of their hometown. Brogues softened, manners surfaced and charming gentlemen emerged as soon as the layers of salt and dirt were washed away.

That was not to say that the occasional "piratey" scandal did not surface. Bankrupt and disaffected with the British government, one night Captain Woodes Rogers attracted the attention of a suspicious Londoner lurking around the Llandoger Trow trading drinks for sea stories. Rogers could not be bought by the glass, but once the stranger's price hit its mark, he pulled no punches in the furious exposé he unleashed. Charles Johnson (rumored to be Daniel Defoe in disguise) published a bestseller with his _General History of the Pyrates_ in 1724 and Bristol's society gossips almost drown in its wake. Some of the locals were horrified by the presence of so many real names in the text, while others were equally incensed to have been left out. Since Rogers was a close friend of the family, the Barbossas escaped any direct reference, although Aunt Amelia had found at least three instances where Charlotte's father appeared unnamed in the background.

Anyone familiar with the pirate haunts in the Caribbean or Far East had a good chance of meeting at least half a dozen familiar faces along the quays. Charlotte failed to recognize any of the men who tipped their hats to her father, but she knew of quite a few of their ships by reputation alone. The hulking brigs, frigates and East Indiamen were lined up, bow to stern, as far as the eye could see. A fair number were privately owned or underwritten by nameless financiers, and crewed by men who had taken their oaths on the Code of Morgan and Bartholomew.

"Captain Barbossa?" an oddly pitched male voice called out.

Charlotte turned around to see a tiny bald man flanked by a pair of outlandish courtesans wearing matching red gowns and carrying parasols. She wished Pascal had been with them as little people fascinated him. To complement his diminutive frock coat and ruffles, the dwarf wore an unusual collection of keys around his neck and its bawdy symbolism became clearer the longer he stared at Charlotte.

"Master Martin," Barbossa smiled politely, but the strained tone of his voice suggested he was less than pleased to see the little man, "how fare ye?"

Marty nodded to his two companions and his smile boasted. "Can't complain none. And who is this lovely creature?" His lusty gaze continued to bear down on Charlotte.

"She's be me daughter." Barbossa snapped.

"Oh." Marty lost interest and shifted his attention to the conversation at hand. "I heard the story about the _Pearl_—is it true then? She's been lost?"

Barbossa patted his right thigh. "This not be a fashion statement."

"Well, I'll be honest then when I say that I am damn pleased I overslept at Miss Allison's on Tortuga." He whistled. "So now what? A few blokes I was talking to last night seemed to think that you'll be heading out to take on Blackbeard. Any truth to it?"

"Tavern stories, I'm sure. Ye may trust that I plan to have nothing more than a short conversation with Edward Teach concerning the compensation he owes me and the forms of payment I'm amenable to accepting."

Marty shook his head. "They say he came back from the dead and has a zombie crew."

"And what, pray tell, Master Martin, do _they_ say about yours truly?" Barbossa replied with an irritable sigh.

"About the same," the dwarf shrugged, "but I think the general consensus is that you're a lot nicer and more sane."

"It's good to know me collegiality precedes me." Barbossa smirked. "Who might ye be sailing with these days?"

"Sailed over with Captain Chevalle and I've been looking to go back with Simon, but then I heard someone say that Captain Teague himself was headed up to London town so I might see if I can't get on with him."

"Captain Teague, you say?" He leaned on his crutch. "More than a little far a field of the Caribbean, you think?"

"Reliable source," Marty shrugged again, "and perhaps Captain Jack's with him."

"Oh, that would be most delightful." Barbossa stepped backward and started to turn away.

"If I see him, I'll tell him you said hello, Captain Barbossa," Marty bowed, "and best of luck with Blackbeard, but I think it's damn near suicidal to take him on."

Charlotte waited until the dwarf was out of earshot. "He was a odd little fellow. Who's Teague?"

"Little wretch isn't of much more use than ballast. Teague be naught more than an old acquaintance," Barbossa said dismissively, "however, we be keeping an eye out for him in London. Out of character for him to drift past the Antilles."

The freshly painted _Argyle_ was berthed between a formidable old frigate dubbed the _Leprechaun_ and an unimpressive coastal collier off loading its cargo. Barbossa displayed an increasing degree of agility as he made his way through the tangle of activity before arriving at the base of the _Argyle's_ gangplank. Upon reaching the ship, his demeanor changed and his voice assumed an even more commanding tone.

"You! Mangy dog! Set ye foot to it and tell your Cap'n Fergusson that Barbossa be here to see him!" He barked at one of the sailors on the deck. At the mention of his name, Charlotte noticed how some of the sailors drew back and others stared at them with dumbfounded looks of curiosity. "And I ain't having the time nor patience to be waiting for ye to haul ye filthy carcass across that deck like a whore headed to the confessional. Set to it!"

In a matter of minutes, a wiry gray haired captain came careening across the deck. The tall man with the angular face looked as though he'd escaped from an infirmary and his deep-set eyes had a feverish quality to them. Despite his frail appearance, he shoved his sailors out of the way with elaborate sweeping gestures accompanied by an impressive range of profanity that was only slightly obscured by his outrageous Gaelic accent. By the time he made it to the opposite end of the gangplank, Charlotte judged him completely mad and liked him for it.

"Hector! You be late!" he roared. "Now do come aboard! Come aboard!" He glared at his crew. "Ye know who the hell this is? You ought to, you worthless gaggle of dimwitted fools. If I didn't spit on formality round here, I'd have the lot of ye sorry shites beat." He groaned as he offered his hand to Barbossa. "Worthless grandsons and whatevers—stupid bastards all. To hell with it, though, because I have laid me hands upon a case of port worthy for drinking to the death of all the Bourbons and Borgias. By God, we're goin' to drink! But, good morning sweet Jesus!" His gaze landed on Charlotte. "Tis looking back in time with this one! Even sober, I doubt I'd not think she was your Josie, Hector." Dramatically, he put his hand to his heart and bowed to Charlotte. "The wee little one, all grown!" He then seized her hand and kissed it, but noticing her bruised and swollen nose. "Holy hell, little lass, what's wrong with your face?"

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "Bloody uneven threshold."

Charlotte blushed. "It looks worse than it is."

"You think? Cause it be looking like shite."

Barbossa gave the other man a sideways glance to silence him. "Charlotte, I don't expect you to remember me cousin Seamus given he looks worse each time ye see'em?"

She smiled good naturedly, but truly she could not recall having seen him more than twice since she was eleven years old. Even though she did not recognize him, she knew hundreds of her father's stories about Fergusson. The two men had sailed together for most of their lives.

Fergusson nodded self deprecatingly. "Right, so that means you be related to a half dozen of these little slack jawed shites fouling me deck, but mind you not close enough to preclude any relationship if you develop an interest in taking one of them off me hands—"

"She's married to a mathematician, Seamus."

"A magician!" Fergusson gasped. "Oh that's grand!"

"No, ye heard wrong, numbers—maths." Barbossa raised his voice.

The distinction registered with the other captain. "Bloody shame, that's dreadful boring." He sighed. "All the same, I really wouldn't wish one of these idiot buggers on anyone, unless ye know someone who might be interested in being the benefactor of a lecherous simpleton?"

"Can't say that I do." Charlotte politely declined. As she started to follow the two men across the deck, she instinctively began noting the ship's structural integrity and scrutinizing its value. Apparently, the _Argyle_ had been a ship of the line at the turn of the previous century and its battle scars served as evidence of both its solid construction and long service. She kept to her father's elbow as they followed Fergusson toward the stern. By the time they reached the captain's cabin she had estimated the ship's tonnage, determined how much speed might be coaxed out of the old canvas and appraised its value. Conservatively, she decided that, if asked, she would not underwrite it for less than 30% up front. For a moment, she paused and considered what her father said about factoring in the crew and captain and reconsidered her decision—the _Argyle_ probably would not be a good investment at all.

Fergusson's elegantly appointed cabin hinted at the ship's glory days and the crates of port and rum hinted at his perpetual drunken state of over exuberance. Charlotte followed her father's lead and sat down in one of the high backed chairs around the chart table while Fergusson retrieved a tray with three glasses and grabbed a bottle of port from the cupboard. After pouring his guests very generous amounts servings, he took off his hat, pitched it at the gallery bench and collapsed into his chair. The thin-faced man looked exhausted.

He noted Charlotte's look of concern. "Don't mind me, darling, me ague comes and goes—been dying from it since I was twenty." He dug into his coat for a silver flask. "I drink more of this holy Peruvian bark water than I do rum."

"You look like hell, Seamus." Barbossa tapped his glass to his cousin's silver flask.

"You're not looking that good ye self, Hector. You noticed ye missing a leg?"

Barbossa looked down at his prosthesis and feigned surprise. "I wager I can still kick your arse with me good one."

"Don't doubt that one bit." He chased the quinine mixture with a long drink of wine. "Is that one of your old man's hats?"

"Bit hard to keep hold of a hat all the while sawing off a limb and dangling from a yardarm." Barbossa took off his hat and straightened the brim. "And, yes, it is one of me father's," he added with a chuckle. "Which reminds me, did you stop by Langley's before ye left London?"

Charlotte had been dreading this question since she started for Bristol. "There was a bit of fire in Cornhill last March and Langley's burned to the ground."

Barbossa appeared genuinely crestfallen.

Fergusson started to laugh.

Charlotte waited for her father to get up and murder him, but he seemed to accept the other man's ridicule in stride.

"Seriously, Hector, you lost your leg, your ship, your crew and probably a bloody obnoxious monkey, but now you're only really and truly heartbroken because you've lost your hat." He slapped the table.

"Go straight to hell, Seamus."

"Your daddy," Fergusson turned to Charlotte, "has always been so bloody picky about everything being just so-so, it knocks me over to think how he ain't starved to death or why he ain't still sitting at the dock in Willemstad remaking that poor blighted crew redo every knot in every line of the _Leper's _rigging."

"If there's something to be done it'll be done the right way and if I'm to bother wanting something in particular, I'm not going to take anything other than what I actually be wanting."

"And, God bless them both, but I blame ye parents. Had you grown up with seven brothers, you'd not be so picky." Fergusson wagged his finger and refilled the glasses. "As it was you were bloody well spoiled."

"Was not."

"You were."

"Was not."

"You were, because otherwise you'd not got it in your head nor had the pocket money to buy that first big black hat you got yer hands on."

"I have fair skin. If I don't wear a hat with a decent brim—"

"Woodes Rogers told ye that and—"

"And I don't have fair skin?"

"Ye do and horribly so, but you started wearing that hat because Woodes Rogers wore the same bloody—"

"Might I interrupt for just a moment," Charlotte interjected, "to have my glass topped off?"

"Certainly, dear lassie," Fergusson refilled her glass, "and how many little picky fair skinned mathematicians with large noses are there?"

"Hardly a proper thing to ask."

"You should meet the mathematician." Barbossa laughed. "He's a hell of a catch."

"I fear I've never harbored much respect for the discipline of mathematics. I had a bastard of a tutor—remember? I used to threaten to publicize that I was one of his students." He smiled triumphantly. "What's her mathematician like?"

"He's a raving lunatic with an unhealthy obsession with rabbits, but he doesn't come at it honestly."

"The rabbits?" Fergusson scooted his chair closer to the table.

Barbossa groaned. "The lunacy."

"Oh be nice," Charlotte grew defensive, "you make him nervous."

"And do I? I reckon all the wormwood tonic he's sucking down has nary an effect on him?"

"Wormwood?" Fergusson's bloodshot eyes lit up. "That be loads of fun."

"He's not taking a wormwood tonic." Charlotte corrected her father.

"I beg to differ having read the bottle." Barbossa paused to fill his cousin in on the whole story. "She's took the wind out of his jib by convincing him he ought to be drinking licorice extract for his _vitality_. But, now he's gone and gotten it mixed up with wormwood. Couldn't tell the difference between the Spanish and Portuguese apothecary labels after he broke the bottle and his rabbits ate the Latin."

"Rabbits eat Latin?"

Charlotte winced. "You obviously attempted to explain this to him?"

"Aye, but fair winds if you think he'll let go of it since he now thinks it be a cure-all."

Fergusson reached over and patted Charlotte's forearm. "Sweetie, there is no doubt in my mind that you are not indeed your father's child and by extension the granddaughter of his mother and great niece of me own mother. You see that degree of devilishness can only grow from the little wispy bit of yer soul made up of muddy Irish curses, skinny drunks and evil screaming harpies. You're brilliantly wicked, but doomed to be hanged by your own petards."

"Speaking of petards," Barbossa redirected the conversation, "who do we know in the Admiralty?"

"A few jackasses and a handful of simpletons—why, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I be requiring a fast ship in order to expedite my intentions to cleave Edward Teach in two with me blade."

Fergusson almost choked on his wine. "To hell with him, Hector, he ain't worth it. Let's go chase off the African coast—give the Portuguese a last run. Half this ship is yours and three quarters of what's left of the _Leper_."

"Seamus, I be far from ready to bow out and either way I'm not taking you down with me." He took a deep breath. "I plan on doing this with a letter of marque in hand and at the helm of one of his majesty's ships."

The other man remained unconvinced. "You could have your pick of any ship in Bristol for ain't no one not heard about you taking on the _Flying Dutchman_. By god, I'd wager me soul that you could walk right up to the Howland Docks in London even and the Company's boys would hand you any shiny new East Indiaman you set your heart to in exchange for a promise not to repeat the incident with the _Endeavor_." His voice hinted at a more than a touch of regret. "Hector, we're getting old, what lot there is left of us. Take the boons they'll offer up cause they'll offer'em. Better to end your days a wealthy man than chase the devil himself down into the deep."

Barbossa brushed off his cousin's concern. "You remind me of me mother. Not interested in the swag, but I swear on me soul that this time Edward Teach will be dead at my hand." He added, "I'm not afraid of the pirate Blackbeard—I've been to hell and back and, if that pathetic whelp had any sense, he'd develop a healthy fear of me and slit his own throat." Barbossa's voice was frightfully clear. For a moment, his blue eyes grew cold and dangerous. "That swings me full circle," his grin returned, "think about it. It'll be the brass ring. So which of our old mates, us antiquities, in a place to give me a leg up on getting at it?"

The feverish drunk started to open his mouth, but snapped it shut apparently thinking better of what he had to say. Charlotte moved to the edge of her seat watching him. With a sigh, Fergusson recovered his speech. "Wouldn't put in him with our mates, but Savage Mostyn has tried to turn decent and is sitting pretty in the Admiralty as Comptroller of the Navy. He's especially paranoid as of late about some of his past associations coming to light and keen to get the attention off his wee little run from Etienne off the French Coast. Maybe blown out of proportion, but his own navy boys at Portsmouth have even taken to taunting him about choppy water and the French threat. He stood before a court martial just to clear his name up. You willing to deal with Savage?"

"Not particularly willing, but not above it." Barbossa narrowed his eyes as he added, "That be said, if his own are calling him out for what he is, what good is he to me?"

"He's still a golden goose and doubly so, not only has he got the Admiralty by the…" he stopped short and remembered Charlotte, "purse strings, he's managed to crawl his way into Parliament thanks to his family ties. Makes me half sick to say, but Savage is on his way to being an admiral."

Barbossa helped himself to the bottle of port. "Ye a bigger man than me self, hearing that makes me fully sick."

Charlotte recognized the name. "Mostyn? I must know, gentlemen, how do you two know the aspiring admiral? I've played cards with the wife of his brother John and the family seems more than a bit…not this." She gestured broadly to the ship.

"Oh, we met him in an official capacity." Barbossa mimicked her with a flapping gesture to the ship around them.

"And in the official capacity of our meeting, as we were surveying the parameters of the property under consideration we encountered the potential admiral in a comprising situation..." Fergusson stopped, realizing that he had tread too far into a story that perhaps should not be retold in mixed company.

Barbossa butted in, "As a matter of propriety, Charlotte, perhaps we'll just have you use your imagination."

"You can't start a story such as that and just stop." She protested. "Using the phrase 'compromising situation' has opened the door to a litany of interesting indiscretions—you can't just leave it at that."

"Aye, sweetheart, we can." Barbossa smiled coolly.

"Really? I'm over thirty years old. I grew up here in Bristol—I've not been cloistered away—_and_ your voice carries," she accused her father, "so I heard just about every story you ever told Uncle Gaspar." She took an unladylike gulp of the port, linked her arm through her father's and launched into her best impression of him. "Three saucy wenches for the price but one, nay couldn't climb the shrouds for the week, but I'd—"

Barbossa appeared genuinely shocked before cutting her off with what he obviously identified as the lessor of two evils. "Absurd, you've gone and confused me with someone else. But since she's obviously in command of such a decadent imagination, best get on with it, Seamus. What ever did we discover whilst surveying the property under consideration?"

"Heather, Clarissa and Bridgette?" Fergusson gasped and refused to abandon the other compromising story Charlotte had hinted at.

Barbossa's glare grew menacing.

"We'll circle back around to that one when the angel is away. By your leave, I'll get on with Lieutenant Mostyn's perverse tale of misfortune." He fortified himself with a long drink and began dramatically, "You see, lass, apparently the lieutenant had failed to note the ship had been seized."

"Slept straight through being boarded," Barbossa contributed.

"And he liked to sleep in fancy women's clothing," Fergusson's face colored and he winced as though it physically pained him to say it, "with an overgrown cabin boy tucked under his arm."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "No, you must be joking!"

"On me soul, little miss, sure as hell wasn't something ye spy every day. Disturbing enough it was that I feared we was going to have to start going to Mass after running across that sight and mind you, we be the bloody fecking pirates and your daddy ain't close to being a good Catholic."

"What did you do?" Charlotte demanded.

Barbossa picked up the story. "Well it didn't take long before he realized that it wasn't just him and his pudgy friend down in the hold. When Mostyn jumped up to his feet the first thing out of Seamus's mouth was, 'You corrupt bastard, me mum had a dress like that!"

Already into their cups, Fergusson and Barbossa began interrupting each other adding details and the sordid story grew ever more outrageous. Charlotte also knew that there was still much that was being omitted in her company. The tale was proving to be as off color as she expected, yet she found it more entertaining to see two hardened pirates in their sixties carrying on in such an adolescent manner.

"And you," Fergusson howled slapping the table, "was laughing so hard it sounded like we was getting murdered down there. You was doubled up like that time you got shot in the gut." He turned to Charlotte. "While we is being made worthless by the horror of what we was seeing, there's a calamity of stomping up above across the gun deck cause our crew's coming down to save us and that really set Mostyn into a panic—"

"—and not because the ship has been taken on his watch."

"—but because he's frantic that we're going run him up on the deck in front of his mates so they might all see him in his ball gown and tawdry lingerie."

"Aye, but the pure madness be that in the middle of it all, he gets it to his mind to try to negotiate with us as an officer of the ship still while still dressed like a bloomin' harpy."

"Right!" Fergusson started to slide down in his chair as his laughter overcame him.

Barbossa put his hand to his chest and affected a exaggeratedly proper accent, "As the post-captain lieutenant harlot whatever of this vessel, I am charged with asking for your terms. Are you privateers in the employ of the king of France or Spain?"

"It's like we was supposed to ignore the dress, the wig, the rouge and the fat friend he's got hog tied and just settle down to business. You can't ask for bloody terms as a post-captain in the middle of all that!"

"Aye, but ye be forgetting it was the proper shade of blue for an officer!" Barbossa lost his composure.

"Oh bloody hell, Hector, that be true! But officer's dress or not, the two of us was already retreating up the ladder backwards—backs against the wall like in a Turkish prison!" Fergusson took a deep breath. "And while we was going up there was Etienne coming down the ladder..." Unsteadily, he rose from his chair for his impersonation of the famed Penniless Frenchman. "_C'est quoi ce bordel? Oh mon dieu! __C'est de la merde! Oh mon dieu!_"

Charlotte was suitably impressed by the string of profanity.

"So there we be—I ain't caught me breath enough to shoot the prissy bastard, Seamus is saying the rosary, Chevalle's having a swearing fit and waving his arms around," Barbossa took a breath, "and that's when Mostyn picked up a gaff and started in like he was going to tear his way out through the hull. He was screaming all the while 'You'll not talk! I'll shut you up!' after which I figured that the time to put an end to the farce that be upon us."

"So ye daddy starts back down there to take Mostyn's head off and the pervert begins pulling the planking right out of the hull. Mind you, there's no way you can pull a hull apart with a gaff wearing a dress! It ain't possible!" Fergusson trailed off as he looked at his cup as if wondering what happened to its contents. "No, the sneaky blokes of the navy had built in a false front down there in the hold where no one might notice there was a bursar's cache behind it. Ain't never imagined to see gold like that on such a small ship. Ain't never imagined either that he was going to pay us out not to say anything about the dress and associated scene we stumbled in upon." He wiped the tears from his eyes as he reached for an uncorked bottle. "Minute I saw that gold, I could care less what he was wearing or doing previously."

"Aye, but all the same he be so wrapped up in his own guilt and worried that we might run off to sully his good reputation, he not only handed over the gold, but he traded us the names of five other ships with similar shine hidden onboard for our word that we'd say naught."

Fergusson nodded. "Aye, if we look back on the situation with the wisdom of maturity, here one has an upright and coming officer in the Royal Navy," he paused looking at Barbossa with feigned seriousness, "puns should be construed as intended—and his ship is taken by a mangy lot of pirates, he's a bloody fool to divulge any more information than necessary. We was nothing to look at, we'd been drunk for days and it was hot as all hell and nary a breeze blowing. We was hungover, irritable and pretty damned broke. Granted," he smiled at his compatriot, "you was going to take off his head, but just as much we'd been pleased as peaches to take that shiny swag, the powder and everything sharp, pointy or weapony off that ship and stumble away with a good laugh and a hell of a tavern story. But Mostyn was daft enough to think that we going to go running back to his mother and daddy in London, and therein set himself up to be blackmailed for his whole damned life. On my honor, I've always kept to the Code and my word is nigh near golden amongst my professional associates, but he's wearing a bloody dress and got his face all painted up—there's no honor extended under those circumstances. We'd been loony fools to miss an opportunity of such proportions."

"If I might be so bold to add, in all honesty, Seamus, I think if you were to sit down and have a good read of it the Code has stipulations negating the binding properties of negotiations undertaken with His Majesty's officers whilst wearing women's clothing. I know this because I had it amended me self." Barbossa paused until Seamus's howling subsided once more. "Aye, after we gave our word as good Englishmen, we went back up to what we'd left of the captain's cabin and the captain and I put me hands on the ship's manifest!" Barbossa joined in Seamus's wicked mirth, although slightly clinging to the table.

"And the moral of the story is, little Miss Charlotte," Fergusson raised his finger in an authoritative manner, while slurring his words, "literacy should not be underestimated or undervalued!"

_.  
><em>

_Much Later…_

Charlotte woke with a start, her head swimming. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, she sat up and realized that she had fallen asleep on the couch in Fergusson's chartroom. She rubbed her head trying to shake off the dizziness when it hit her— the ship was moving. Horrified, she started for the door and she almost collided with a young man.

"Apologies, Miss Charlotte!" He stumbled backward desperately trying to avoid upsetting the teapot on his tray. "You father said you would probably want some tea."

"Are we moving?"

"Well yes," he stammered as he continued to struggle with the tray, "we've been underway for about seven hours now."

"Seven hours…uh, Mr.—what was it?"

"Jimmy, er, I mean James Cook…from Yorkshire."

"Right, right," she replied dismissively, "Mr. Cook, why in the bloody hell are we moving and where is my father?"

"Underway to London and on the quarterdeck with Cap'n Fergusson. You probably should drink some tea—sea might get a little rough later today and you ought have some tea."

Charlotte pointed at the table. "Pour me a cup, then Mr. Cook. Perhaps you can tell me why we're going to London at this moment?"

He handed her a cup spilling half of its contents on the chart table. "I'm stowing to London because I need to get back to Tyne—I've been apprenticing with the Walker brothers went with a crew to Bristol, but now I need to get back home. Captain Fergusson offered and I'm trying to get some experience on bigger ships, such as this. I'm still pretty weak kneed aloft." He caught himself, "However, I'm certainly not the reason why you're going to London. Do you know someone there?"

"No, you're probably not the reason and actually I live there." She snapped after fortifying herself with the tea. "Quarterdeck, you said?"

Charlotte pushed past Cook and made her way out to the protected quarterdeck. The cold salty air struck her like a brick hurled through a plate glass window. Steadying herself, she plastered a smile on her face and approached the two older men sitting on the railing. At some point the port had been stowed and the good rum brought out.

"Afternoon, Charlotte," her father raised his cup to her, "kind of you to join us. Given your habits, I'm surprised ye accomplish anything during the daylight hours."

"And where might we be going?" She kept her voice even and pleasant despite her mounting anger.

Barbossa pointed toward the bow of the ship. "London."

"Was this planned?"

"Couldn't make it down the gangplank—matter of personal safety an all. Figured we might as well go on." He beamed at his own cleverness. "Tried to inquire as to your opinion of the matter, but you're pretty damn worthless when you're drunk, sweetie."

Charlotte's dismay could not be disguised and despite her best efforts to seem nonchalant, her expression betrayed her. Her lip quivered involuntarily.

Fergusson laughed.

"Truly, Charlotte?" Barbossa's voice took on a sing-songy cynical tone. "I sent a message back to Pascal. They'll catch up after a few errands and too much idle chitchat about rabbits. My darling, there was no in way in hell I was going to share a coach with ye beloved. I don't believe I like him."

Ultimately, his decision made sense and as long as Pascal had been informed, she could not argue with him. She had not been looking forward to returning to London in a coach either. Furthermore, even if Pascal had not been informed, there was little she could do about her situation. She knew that she was always safe with her father, yet also knew that only a fool would argue with him or challenge his authority on a ship.

"Straight to London, right?" She exhaled. "Not London via the West Indies or Singapore?"

"There be the coastline, love," Fergusson jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "besides we be running on a short crew and while Jimmy, there, is worth his weight in gold, I need a few more seasoned boys up tops to handle the trade winds in this old shoe."

"Miss Charlotte," Jimmy spoke almost on cue, "shall I bring you a chair?"

She turned and smiled politely at the dashing young man who appeared woefully out of place on the quarterdeck of a ship as disreputable as the _Argyle_. "I would be eternally grateful."

Fergusson waited for Cook to step back inside the chartroom. "That one, now he'll go far. Got's a good head on him. Too polite to end up out here on the Account, but he'll give the navy a better sort of officer than what they've been accustomed to."

"There are a few gentlemen on the Account," Barbossa interjected.

"Name one." Fergusson shot back, "and, while ye might look the part, Hector, I've known you as long as I've been alive, so don't cite yourself as an example."

Barbossa looked off into the distance, and seemed to be running down a long list of pirates he had known. He started to speak several times, but changed his mind as he thought of something ungentlemanly about the individual. After a long pause he pointed his finger at Fergusson triumphantly. "William Turner."

"Bootstrap?" Fergusson laughed and shook his head. "I don't think so—no, belay that, hell no!"

"Nay, William Turner…_junior_."

"Heard weird things about him." Fergusson held his tongue when Cook appeared with the chair and waited for him to take his leave before continuing. "Heard that boy was a loon."

"Aye, a loon but a gentleman as well, though. He be crusading every time I turned around—a governor's daughter the first time out and after Bootstrap's soul the second time. Very stupid, yet _cavalier_—so, makes him a gentleman."

"No," Fergusson folded his arms, "he sailed with Jack Sparrow and that negates any pretense to gentlemanly behavior or association, ergo leaving him just a loon."

"Disagree. He remained a gentleman in spite of sailing with that idiot—I'm sure there's extra credit he gets just for that alone."

"I'll concede that, but where's Turner now?"

"On the _Dutchman_ last I saw."

"So, he's off the Account."

"Technically," Barbossa begrudged, "but, doesn't make any difference to the example."

"Does. We're talking present tense, right now. Active examples."

Barbossa was silent for a while as he returned to his mental list. "Really, it'd help if I had a roster of some sort. There's one, at least."

"Define what you mean by gentleman." Charlotte coaxed. "If we're going to tread into the shallows of who could be and could not be identified as a gentleman whilst also on the Account, we need a consistent working definition."

"Alright," Fergusson accepted her challenge, "according to the stories about damsels and dragons and all, a gentleman is mannered, fights fair, respects ladies, don't take advantage of the weak and is honorable."

"Then I can name one quite easily." Charlotte smiled triumphantly.

"Ain't giving you no points for naming your dear older-than-me daddy." Fergusson teased.

"I have me good qualities and only older by half a year."

"Sorry," Charlotte smiled, "you don't fight fair."

"Well, certainly no pretense about that any more." he tapped his peg leg on the deck.

"Hector," Fergusson shook his head, "you didn't fight fair when you was twenty. Alright lass, if it ain't your paternal figure sitting here deluded that he ever fought fair, who is it?"

"A pirate, yes. A captain, no. You did not stipulate the example had to be a captain and I've a very good example that demonstrates how an individual can be both a pirate and a gentleman." She gestured the bottle of rum between the two men and pushed her cup and saucer at Fergusson.

He looked to Barbossa for permission before he obliged. "Now, your example, love? And he has to be a pirate on a ship and active, not imaginary friends."

"Mr. Spaghetti—I mean Ragetti."

"Skinny bloke with a false eye?" Fergusson shook his head. "Didn't look like much of a gentleman."

"But he was a true gentleman," Charlotte smiled broadly, "even if he didn't look the part."

"Aye, but the lass is right." Barbossa raised his teacup of rum to the memory of the emaciated one-eyed sailor. "To the last of the gentlemen of fortune."

"And all that leaves out here are the old bastards past their prime like us and the sorry sons of bitches whose reckoning fast approaches." Fergusson leapt to his feet with an unexpected energy. "And here be the pale horse whose rider be Death," he stretched his arms out to the ship around him and turned in a full circle, "and Hell will come following after'em. There that be ye warning, Eddy Teach!" Fergusson roared above the sound of sea and the wind. He then turned back around to look at Barbossa and a grim determination settled on his face. "Nay, while we can't go back in time, you're right in that we can still return it all to course and make up for what we didn't do all them years ago."

Barbossa only smiled.


	12. Chapter 11

THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL

CHAPTER XI

The English Channel lived up to its reputation as a foul tempered stretch of water and the _Argyle_ groaned as the dark blue swells took turns pulling her toward the depths and then pushing her skyward. The sea had been unusually calm until they rounded Land's End and entered the Channel proper. The rough water combined with Captain Fergusson's daredevil variety of piloting and love for speed left Charlotte in a cold sweat trying not to notice the feelings of vertigo and nausea that threatened to overcome her. Although she knew a great deal about ships and her mind never stopped calculating her maritime investments, she had spent little time actually sailing and the wicked swells of the Channel often taxed the stomachs of seasoned sailors. Charlotte grew more flushed and lightheaded the more she thought about not being sick and, despite her indomitable resolve, she looked quite green.

"Ought to think of it as a dance."

Her father's voice startled her. "Pardon?" She responded through clenched teeth.

"Can't ignore it and certainly can't fight it, but if ye be intent upon standing there lock kneed, ye might well move over to the rail and save a deckhand his trouble. You won't be lasting long like that. By my soul! Here we are," he sighed as he seized her hand. "Ye be noticing that the Channel keeps about the same time as the first dance of a wedding supper. I'll lead." Taking her other hand, he pulled her around to face him. "Just keep ye eyes on the horizon over me shoulder and heave to starboard if ye must be losing yer gut." He pushed her into a simple box step. She stumbled backward, but her father paid little attention to her unwilling feet. Instead, he supplied the words to an almost forgotten Ladino song that matched the rhythm of the swells. "_Rahelica baila. Moxonico canta. Los ratones gordos, ellos dan las palmas_. _Rahelica_ _baila_…"

At first Charlotte felt ridiculous dancing with her father across the quarterdeck of a dilapidated pirate ship, but his trick worked magic. The more she moved in time with the sea the better she felt. He was right—the Channel possessed a discernable rhythm. It made sense.

The ship's carpenter took advantage of the rare opportunity to perform and retrieved an out-of-tune violin from his sea chest. His rough hands coaxed a strangely beautiful melody from the warped instrument. As the tune switched to a Gallic reel, her father handed her off to her malarial "uncle" who promenaded her around the quarterdeck twice before he yielded her to one of her older cousins and she was passed down through their ranks on to the main deck. She had never been very graceful or adept at dancing, but by the time a blushing James Cook took her hands Charlotte had found her sea legs.

The surreal scene triggered another deluge of disconnected memories from her childhood and the strange voyage that brought her back to Bristol after her mother died. She'd heard the melodies before, remembered the rhythm of the rolling deck beneath her feet and felt the kind roughness of tar stained hands grasping her own. She could not help but laugh. It was not the first time she had danced on a rolling sea.

Charlotte was relieved that her boredom during the five days it took to reach London would not have to compete with seasickness. All the same, it did not take long for her to tire of trying to follow the stories her father and Fergusson found so humorous while leaving out all of the interesting parts in her presence. She vowed to leave the old men to their nostalgia and use the unplanned excursion into the Channel to her advantage. During the day with her cousin Angus as her guide, she explored the ship and polled the crew about the seriousness of various noises and leaks. Her appreciation of the grisly sailors grew as they shared with her their many stories and eagerly revealed the secrets of their trade. In the late afternoons, she recorded her meticulous notes on a folded piece of chart paper that had begun to take on the appearance of a treasure map.

In addition to the information she was gathering, she also got to know her cousins better and, even though they were clearly more than a little rough around the edges, she recognized the willingness of the brutish mob of pirates to do her bidding. Of course, Pascal would demand that they all be bathed and develop meaningful relationships with a tailor before he would allow himself to be seen in public with them. Charlotte chuckled to herself at the thought of Angus and his brothers submitting to face power and silk stockings, but she knew that Pascal would approve of her strategic networking. She understood the value of having people available to do one's dirty work when the need arose.

Charlotte missed her personal assassin and dearest friend tremendously and looked forward to seeing him in London. In less than a week without her constant companion, she had amassed a treasure trove of saucy tales and bizarre anecdotes to share with him—not the least of which concerned her brief encounter with a lecherous dwarf named Marty or the juicy gossip about John Mostyn's younger brother's sexual proclivities. By the time they had reached the Thames Estuary, she was anxiously counting down the hours until she would be back in London reunited with her confidant and catching up on the news at Lloyd's over untouched coffee. She also longed for her own bed.

Albeit brilliant, the full moon made it difficult to sleep and Charlotte found herself awake wishing for a cloudy sky. For the trip to London, she had been given the first mate's cramped quarters that opened into the main cabin where her father slept almost directly in front of her door. As he would sit up reading through much of the night, he kept a lamp burning and seemed to doze intermittently. Captain Barbossa remained a notoriously light sleeper and was still quite over protective of his daughter even though Charlotte was usually armed to the teeth and well versed (thanks to Pascal) in how to defend herself.

Unable to escape the moonlight even in her dreams, Charlotte sat up and threw the musty smelling coverlet back. The claustrophobic conditions of the narrow cabin combined with the lunar annoyance emboldened her to attempt to sneak past her father for want of fresher air. Happily, the door did not creak and the groaning timbers of the ship obscured her footfalls. The hazy blue moonlight made the cabin look foreign and gave it the illusion of being bigger or perhaps it made her feel smaller. She barely recognized her surroundings.

Gingerly, she climbed over her father taking extra care not to disturb his deep sleep. As soon as her bare feet touched the ornate Persian rug she began to tiptoe through the maze of heavy furniture. She reached the thick mahogany door without stumping her toe and her hand easily found the cold brass knob cast in the shape of a coiled snake.

Odd. Charlotte could remember no carved doors or brass knobs on the _Argyle_…

Slowly, she turned around. The bright blue moonlight revealed all of the familiar elements she remembered. Even though the finer details were obscured by shadow, she recognized the meticulous order of the room from the gold plated instruments on the writing desk that unfolded from the wall to the perfectly centered chandelier in the vaulted ceiling and the rack where her father hung his baldric and big black hat. Her gaze paused only for a moment on the dark blue ostrich plumes.

The same color as the ring her mother always wore…

The door opened silently into another section of the main cabin that was dominated by a richly detailed chart table and six high backed chairs taken from a Spanish galleon. Around the room an odd collection of pilfered paintings hung on the walls between the armory cabinets. Along the periphery the leaded glass windows were reinforced and swung open to the inside. Her father's first mate, a scar-faced African named Isaac, slept beneath the windows atop the bench that concealed one of the cannons employed as a stern chaser. Isaac's big hands were folded across his chest and Charlotte wondered if the strangers in the paintings had been reading Psalms to the body. Most of the crew feared the first mate they called Bo'sun, but Charlotte had never felt any terror in the presence of the quiet man who had so often accompanied her father when he came home to Willemstad during the storm season.

Isaac always brought her sweets.

Effortlessly, she pushed through the big double doors that opened behind the richly carved and embellished staircase leading to the quarterdeck. The glimmer of a silvery blade protruding from one of the simpler utilitarian stanchions supporting the stairs suddenly caught her eye. She paused to trace her fingers over the row of notches carved into the wood below the blade. The grooves were cold and wet to the touch. Charlotte had no recollection of seeing them before.

A chill ran down her spine.

High above, the perfectly trimmed canvas hung slack from the yards oblivious to the cool breeze while the still waters lapped lazily against the side of the ship. Her gaze was drawn to the top of the mainmast where the Dutch pennant hung lifelessly. Her father always flew the Dutch colors when his black flag with the smiling skull over crossed cutlasses was stowed. The smiling skull made Charlotte's stomach ache.

As she climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, she spied Monsieur Mallot, the helmsman she sometimes called Mr. Onion. The grouchy Frenchman moved slowly, which made it easy to avoid him. Charlotte always tried to stay out of his sight even though he was one of the crewmen with whom her father allowed her to speak. She did not doubt that the helmsman was someone who would keep her safe, but he always snapped at her if she got within more than a yard of the railing or too close to the opening above the gun deck. He once said he had a daughter, but Charlotte could not remember him mentioning her a second time.

"Miss Charlotte," the familiar voice that she had been looking for materialized behind her, "what are you doing out here?"

"I was looking for you, Mr. Noodle." She turned around to face the skinny young man with the oversized false eye. She could feel the cold night breeze as it whipped her hair and feel the icy drops of moisture as it fell from the untended canvas now flapping uselessly aloft.

He smiled his crooked smile. "Whatsoever for?"

It took her a moment to respond. The words tumbled out wrapped up in a child's whisper. "I don't want to forget you, Mr. Noodle."

"Oh." He nodded gravely. "But you must, Miss Charlotte." He spoke plainly as he knelt down and his smile turned sad. "You saw it. I'm already carved into the post. Dead or not, there I am. I'm in the post and you can't uncarve it."

As if doused with icy water, Charlotte bolted upright nearly falling off the narrow bunk in her haste. In a blind panic, she stumbled to the door and threw it open. The warped wood hit the back of the sofa with enough force that it slammed shut as Charlotte attempted to cross the threshold. Undeterred by the creaking door's attempted assault, Charlotte pushed it open a second time and launched herself over the back of the old sofa. She landed on top of her father.

Barbossa was not amused. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I had a bad dream," she whispered hoarsely. Her heart continued to pound inside of her chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

He regarded her as though she were mad and growled, "Don't mean I should suffer for it."

"It was frightening." Her throat grew tight. "I'm scared."

Suppressing his initial irritation, Barbossa conceded half the sofa to his distraught daughter. "Was but a dream. Now go back to sleep."

Charlotte clung to his arm and pressed her head against his boney shoulder. "Tell me, on the post by the main cabin doors of the _Cobra_, what did those notches mean?"

He suddenly seemed distant. "Charlotte, what are you talking about?"

"Isaac put them there by the steps going up to the quarterdeck. What did they mean?"

The old pirate gave her a strange look. "Warn't no notches in the post on the _Cobra_."

"But, I saw them—" she protested, her own choler rising to match his.

"Nay. You saw naught." He snapped. "Never saw them. Aye, but they were real enough. You see, those notches were upon a post aboard the _Black Pearl_. And ye be right on account that Isaac put them there, but you never ever had the occasion to lay yer eyes upon them. A mark each for that blackguard Sparrow and his sorry dog Bootstrap—was done in drunken jest, but she didn't seem to latch on to the humor. Only a mad man would make light of—"

"I saw more than two." Charlotte breathed. "What did it mean?"

Her father chuckled, but did not look up. "Twas _keri'ah." _

His words hung heavy in the stale air. So heavy, in fact, that they fell like bricks to the floor and faded away into a sound of a hand banging on the door accompanied by a friendly admonishment to wake up and see London before the morning fog rolled in.

Dreams within dreams were like the bubbles in cheap glass windowpanes made obvious by the rays of a June morning's dawn.

Charlotte opened her eyes and allowed the bright sunlight to sting them until she was confident that she was truly awake and not trapped like a candle moth inside another maddening dream. She also struggled to cling to the ether of her nightmares in hope of making some sense of the strange visions before they evaporated from her mind's eye.

_Keri'ah. _

The word had a chilly resonance to it. Rituals always accompanied death and such customs were not to be neglected. Charlotte understood the significance of the traditions handed down in her family even though she often struggled with the unwanted burden of being different. She had been taught the customs that Bertie the Goat guarded so stoically even though she failed to fully appreciate them. Mourning was a visible, tangible part of life. Whenever someone died, those who suffered the loss most directly tore their own garments as an outward sign of their despair. Sorrow was acknowledged and time was given to the mourner to adjust to the emptiness and accept the absence. However, mourning was intended to be a transitory stage. In due time, the rendered garments would be cast off or mended, unkempt beards would be cut and neglected nails would be trimmed. The visible signs of the bereaved's despair were to be stripped away over time otherwise the mourner would succumb to decay not unlike the bouquets of rosemary left behind on the tombstones in Anglican churchyards.

There were plenty of broken people who refused to part with the rituals of mourning. Hector Barbossa had been sitting shiva for almost twenty-seven years. His scraggly beard, jagged nails and the frayed lace at the cuffs of his sleeves kept the last shovelful of earth from falling on the grave of his Josephina. Charlotte understood the depth of her father's eccentricities.

Heartbroken old men might forever mourn the loss their wives, but ships—ships didn't mourn their doomed crews.


	13. Chapter 12

THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL

CHAPTER XII

The confusion and cacophony of the London Pool was stifling compared to the open sea. The city had changed during her brief absence, now Charlotte noticed the haze of smoke that hung over the endless expanse of rooftops and the relentless din that dominated every waking moment. A chill lurked on the breeze and the July morning seemed at odds with the season. Charlotte was irritable and made little effort to hide it as she crossed the main deck of the _Argyle_ toward the helm where her father was explaining how to pilot the Thames to James Cook. The eager young man had taken to following Barbossa around the ship like a street urchin begging for coins. Cook took advantage of every opportunity he had to ingratiate himself to Barbossa, the older captain's wealth of knowledge and willingness to share was invaluable.

"Run up a pennant for a pilot and ask for John Gastonway—he's quite quick to take a bribe and can get you a slip off Billingsgate in the Upper Pool." Charlotte yawned as she joined her father at the binnacle.

Barbossa regarded her with a condescending smile and gestured at the line of ships moored opposite the quays—all waiting for pilots. "Bribe a pilot? Sweet Charlotte, ye be a touch out of your element here. Time's come for you to sit back and learn some lessons." He chuckled as he exchanged a look with Fergusson. "Bribing a harbor pilot? Bloody waste of money. Seamus, now do ye feel up to taking our tea in Deptford or Rotherhithe?"

From where he sat at the railing, Fergusson seemed to give the query some thought. "While the Royal Navy is good for a laugh, I'm not in the mood to feign politeness. Let's drop in on the company gents."

"Rotherhithe? Ye aren't dressed for it."

Fergusson dusted off the sleeve of his coat. "Me style is timeless, mate."

"Hardly assuring, given all ye be wearing these days that isn't threadbare is me good name."

"Ain't never been your good name that's got us this far." Seamus squared his shoulders and straightened his hat. "Lived by the seat of me britches so long they ought to be threadbare."

Barbossa smiled only for moment before he began to hurl commands at the main deck with a kind of ferocity most captains reserved for battle. His voice broke through the lazy calm that had descended over the past week. "Look alive ye dull headed maggots! By god of sea, I'll put ye to the bottom of the Thames before repeating meself. Clear the braces, shorten the sail and stand to put in! Step to or I be putting me good boot to ye hides. Haul your wind and heave to! Run the Company's blues aloft!" He turned to Cook who stood dumbfounded at Barbossa's elbow. "Mr. Cook," his voice returned to a conversational tone, "take the helm and bring us in."

The young man's face lost its color and for a moment his mouth moved even though his speech had abandoned him. "I'm sorry. What?" He finally stammered.

"The helm, Mr. Cook." Barbossa tapped his finger against the _Argyle's_ oversized wheel. "Time to make yerself useful or crawl begging to that haberdasher for your old position back."

Cook nodded mutely, but did not move. His eyes were fixed on the rows and rows of ships. The _Argyle_ was heavy and had an unreliable rudder, bringing her to dock required equal amounts of skill and luck. Navigating the confusing and heavy traffic of the East India Company's Howland Docks in Rotherhithe was best left to the mad; however Fergusson showed no interest in getting up.

"Last time I'm telling ye Mr. Cook. Take to the helm or I be giving it to Charlotte and I'll see to it that you won't live it down."

Charlotte looked at the _Argyle's_ massive wheel and prayed that Cook would find his courage before her father sent her over to put him in his place. Even though she was not strong enough to maneuver the big old ship, she was far more unwilling to question her father's commands on deck. Fortunately, Cook did not want to be upstaged by a member of the "weaker" sex and managed to take the helm. His wide-eyed horror and white knuckled grip inspired little confidence.

Happily, Cook's need for courage was short lived as the East India Company pilot arrived shortly after the Howland docks came into view. Cook looked faint, but thankful. The pilot clambered over the railing gracelessly behind his assistant and Charlotte recognized Bart Thornhill the moment he slipped and nearly cracked his skull on the main deck. Thornhill was awkwardly lanky, uncomfortably tall and notoriously clumsy. He was also probably one of best-tempered and most corrupt Company men. With a less than jovial shove, he pushed his assistant out of the way as he ran up the quarterdeck stairs. He had recognized the ship from a distance and knew both the captains well enough to dismiss the need for formalities.

"Gentlemen, how the bloody hell are ye?" He bowed ridiculously to Barbossa and put his hat to his heart. "And what the feck can the venerable East India Trading Company do for the likes of you, Captain Barbossa?" While Rachel Thornhill's eldest son lacked the grace and manners of his younger brothers, he made up for it in exuberance. As he stood upright, his gaze shifted to Charlotte. "Shite, I mean damn, no hell just…how the bloody hell are you Charlotte?"

"Tolerably well, Bart." She replied coolly.

"Imagine the bastard responsible for that shiner looks a hell of a lot worse than ye."

"Missed the front step in Bristol that's all." She dismissed his concern. Charlotte paid little mind to Bart Thornhill's efforts to be pleasant, but she tolerated his attempts. Given his resemblance to her own father right down to the large nose and fair skin one did not have to spend too much time calculating Bart's birthday against Rachel Goldsmid-Thornhill's wedding day and the day a twenty year old Hector Barbossa left Bristol to circumnavigate the globe.

"I find the Pool's a little too crowded today. What have ye got?" Barbossa offered the ship's manifest to Thornhill.

With an official nod and a sheepish grin, Thornhill took the document ignoring the wet ink and crossed out dates. "Ah, jolly good order here." He pretended to scan the page. "Right, so now Mr. Jefferies, I'll need you to go aloft and… uh, measure the top gallant's span." He ordered his assistant away. "I want accuracy there, Mr. Jefferies!"

"Measure the top gallant span? What the hell for?" Barbossa watched the clerk struggle to climb the shrouds.

Thornhill smiled wickedly. "Beats me. I can't stand that simpering jackass. I hope he falls in the drink and swallows a trout." He passed the meaningless papers back to Barbossa. "Now, how much powder you carrying? Gonna need something of an honest answer on that one."

Barbossa shrugged and looked over to Fergusson.

The other captain yawned and took a swig from his flask of quinine tonic. "About next to none."

Thornhill seemed unconvinced. "Seriously? C'mon Seamus, I really do have to know."

"Check for ye self," Fergusson growled, "send your lackey down into the hold with a measuring tape and a candle if it suits ye."

Thornhill traded a sideways glance with Barbossa before backing down. "You'll forgive the audacity of my prudent inquiry. Plainly put, I can't have you blowing up the _Invincible_, if I put you in the slip beside her." He smiled broadly. "You ain't never seen any thing like the ship, but I reckon she'll be the first many more to come. Admiral Anson took her from the French in the Channel. We've had her in dry dock trying to figure out what to with her for the past year. Don't look like much from the yards up, but her main deck is big enough to hunt foxes on, mates." He pointed toward the massive vessel moored in the distance. "Big seventy-four gunner like we've been seeing, but now the Froggies upped the ante and added an extra quarter to the gun deck. Granted she's a heavy lass, right at eighteen hundred tons, but she'll play close to your hand if you've got the right man at the helm." He pushed Cook out of the way and took the _Argyle's_ wheel. "She held off six of His Majesty's warships in the Channel while her convoy ran like hell to the coast. Took a bloody beating, but sea worthy 'nough to get her in and up the Thames. Navy's got the hulls for two more sitting over in the Crown's yards; however, the Company wanted to remind the German George we're his loyal subjects so we offered to put our shoulder in and get her," he beamed as the ship came into full view, "back out to sea."

Fully rigged and freshly painted, the _Invincible_ was a sight to behold. The look of wide-eyed wonder that Barbossa and Fergusson shared had the effect of making both men appear younger. Fergusson stepped up to the rail of the quarterdeck to get a better look. Barbossa remained at the binnacle leaning on his crutch. Charlotte had heard some idle talk about the captured French ship, but had paid it little attention. Due to the plethora of problems deeper draught warships faced on rough seas, big did not always translate to better. However, the modifications newly incorporated by the French engineers threatened to be the game changer.

"Holy shite," Fergusson exhaled, "that bastard's huge."

Barbossa said nothing.

The illusion of youth remained as Fergusson tried to coax a reaction from his cousin. "What do you think, Hector? God, imagine what we could do with one of them. What do you make of it?"

After a few more moments of silence, Barbossa finally gave voice to his assessment. "Obsolescence."

Charlotte realized that her father's expression had not been one of awe. He possessed enough foresight to know that the additional footage added to the gun deck rendered most of the previous century's chase tactics moot.

"What?" Fergusson's optimistic smile faded.

Bart Thornhill seemed to know what Barbossa was going to say and fixed his attention on the docks and the pair of long boats coming out to meet them.

"Seamus, we've just lost the advantage that we've spent the past forty years working out. When she catches ye in range of her 32s, there's no tacking out of it. She's stable and can give play even in rough water where those lower gun ports won't be just for show." He looked at Fergusson coolly. "If she follows you into the shallows, she'll bled you dry before she runs aground. All told, I be imagining that if ye plan to stay in the chase, you'll best be to getting your hands back on one of those little Dutch sloops and ply the coastal waters."

"Turn us all back to bleeding smugglers and small time men." Fergusson's optimism vanished.

"I'd take on the devil in foul water, but I'd be mad to run head long into something that big…"

"Fortunately, for entrepreneurs such as yourselves, it'll be another twenty years before you need to start planning a change of career." Thornhill offered. "After the _Endeavor_ was so mercilessly, albeit humorously, sunk the Company had little incentive to put any money into anything that worthlessly big and even now the thing holding'em back will be the lumber—"

Charlotte found her voice and interrupted. "That's easily £30,000 worth of timber sitting there."

"And that be the problem, but be thanking God almighty for the Colonies and their bloody beautiful forests we know the solution. The other problem be those forests are full of natives and Calvinists and Frenchmen. Mark my words, though Charlotte, before _our_ sands are run we're going to see fleets of first rate ships like the _Invincible_. It will not happen overnight, however."

"I'll guess my grandsons will read the law and study anatomy instead of the family profession." Fergusson fished for his flask.

"And if they be coming up short, they can still be petty criminals and cadavers?" Barbossa rolled his eyes.

Laughing, Thornhill slapped Fergusson on the shoulder before turning to Barbossa to hand him a sealed letter. He took a step closer to the older man and lowered his voice. "Mum sends her warmest regards and what I have here at Howland is at ye fullest disposal. Stupid Company gits keep promoting me. These are _my_ docks."

A tight smile settled on Barbossa's lips and he seemed uncomfortable for a moment. He chose his words carefully. "If your father were still amongst the living he'd be suitably proud of ye. As it is, I've never been one to doubt your cleverness, Bart. I owe ye."

_Later…_

Charlotte waited for the coach doors to close before she asked the question that had been plaguing her all day. "Bart knew you were coming."

Barbossa remained nonplussed and stretched his legs out in front of him crossing his good one over his prosthesis. "For every problem you encounter, Charlotte, ye be wisest if you can arrive at five solutions prior to setting after your first. Meaning, I've always invested my earnings and my time with a mind at the very onset to what I need to get out of it. I am the master of me own fate."

"That's hardly an answer to my question." She folded her arms across her narrow chest. "Your getting reacquainted with Rachel Thornhill was no happy accident. Shall I set a place at the table for Bart? Send his children birthday money? Oh, you should know he married the daughter of an Anglican minister. All of his progeny are bona fide members in good standing in the Church of England. Try getting _that_ plaque of the wall at Westminster."

"Charlotte," Barbossa groaned and turned to face her, "I don't care if he married the daughter of the bloody pope in Rome. You are my only child from me only marriage. You are spoiled enough, so why the blazes would I want anything more? I ain't claiming him as me own. Ye be the one I got." His temper flared. "Furthermore, I damn well expect I well ought deserve at least one horrible grandchild out of that farce of a marriage you've worked yourself into to carry on me good name. And that child, sure as hell, will not be christened in an Anglican church. So, missy, you need figure that one out." He crossed his arms. "Your mother would be horrified."

"How dare you? My mother would like Thomas just fine."

"Your mother?" Barbossa sputtered. "God bless her soul for all of eternity, but ye be speaking of the woman whose first comment on every person she met was 'de bene amenu es?' She could have been introduced to the King of England and she'd pull me aside and ask, 'Hector, are they like us?' I married the woman who had the wives of my Dutch cousins terrified. This is the woman who fired all of your aunt Amelia's servants and made my father eat cold soup within a week of her arrival." He started laughing. "I had to convince her own father, who despised her, that I was a worthy suitor and it was only with that bastard's permission that I was allowed to marry her after I paid him treble her dowry for the trouble to do so. It took me well over a year to get to that point. Yet, by God, we were married with his permission, although he didn't bother to attend and disowned your mother nonetheless. But, even that was only after I paid him a ridiculous amount of money, begged and pleaded with that vicious old man and presented him with letters from my father, three uncles, two cousins and the promises of half the Portuguese living in Amsterdam that I was of a 'decent sort' of family." He was working himself into a fit and steadied himself with a deep breath. "That said, I would do it a thousand times over for your mother's hand. There have only been two people I have ever feared in my entire life—one was me own mother and other was yours. I only be reminding you of this fact, because with some certainty, my dearest, you will be outliving me and I will once again find meself face to face with your mother, the love of my life, and I will not have her shame me for allowing you to think that she would 'like Thomas just fine.' Charlotte, my Josephina would have eaten your Thomas alive."

She could only stare blankly at her father. It was the most he had ever disclosed about his courtship with her mother. Finally, Charlotte spoke, "You're right, she'd stomped all over Thomas."

He changed the subject abruptly. "I'll be needing a tailor and optimistically, I'll be venturing that Langley didn't perish in the flames and can be fetched."

"I'll set one of my servants to it the moment we arrive." Charlotte sat up straighter. "I believe you'll find Mayfair quite agreeable." She caught herself looking forward to showing her father her home and hoping that he would be impressed.

Barbossa sighed. "I pray it not be filled with rabbits."

"Thomas keeps only a few house rabbits in London," she blushed, "I assure you the rest are at Cambridge."


End file.
